Home of titans,
where extension is the farme,
remission is the play,
in this amaranthine game,
in our compulsory advance,
the conquest belts the soil,
we build loggers of the wild land,
that never will recoil,
the terms are definite,
in this exhausted engine,
scarred in the heaven’s blood,
and seared into its skin,
in the contamination range,
the ice turns out insane,
and a merciful taiff,


does not make us humane

Home of titans,
where dominion stunts the will,
cannibals and ogres,
they have a pouch to fill,
in our loathsome acumen,
inheritance is tyranny,
our anima is overcome,
and a womb is strategy,
a seduction essential,
in a lunatic cadence,
a perfection of the style,
but a murder of the sense,
the executive array,
operates a mercy-cane,
but the occasional pardon,


does not make us humane

Home of titans,
where we shadow our own sun,
rapists and assissins,
we all become,
in our machinery of greed,
a life is but a tool,
love is a residue,
innocent blood is fuel,
yes we all partake,
in this atrocity,
this is the land of the axe,
and of the mercenary,
then we write out contracts,
in order not to cut a vein,
but hiding slaughter in four walls

does not make us humane