Bring it to your lips and experience 
the sulfur infect, everything 
that we've created. 

Don't twist this around,
don't attempt to justify, what we know is wrong.
Tendons are torn and screams are released 
into a poisoned, mathematic atmosphere.

We're composing our funeral songs, 
note (note) by note (by note).
We're composing our funeral songs, 
note (note) by note (by note).

With this I declare that tomorrow is an allusion
into a poisoned, mathematic atmosphere.

What if the clouds are fragments of mistakes,
fabricated by the factories of our foolishness, 
foolishness?

We're composing our funeral songs, 
note (note) by note (by note).
We're composing our funeral songs, 
note (note) by note (by note).

Prove me wrong,
prove me wrong,
prove me wrong.