Ashenspire - The Wretched Mills lyrics
[Ashenspire - The Wretched Mills lyrics]
Petroleum rivers in their veins
They drink from
The drains, eat from the gutters
A generation shackled to cackling
Looms while fog chokes
The infants in weary cradles
And languid wombs and they are told
In no uncertain terms that God knows
Every man under the sun
But 'tis spiteful lunacy ye who
Have never beheld the sun
Who is to say you are under it
Like the frozen rooftop rip's the
Toes from pigeon's feet
So too the mule's on desperate hands
A-stamping weaving fingers 'mongst textiles
O'er this weary
Clock face, all digit's in a circle
All hands in their place
It's been a long walk
On these tattered souls
Just to be slot, odd cogs even-shaped holes
Grinding down and down like a
Tapeworm in the gut
The shifted of paradigms: sandstone
And white noise let these mainsprings rust
There's lots to be thrown in, but into
What Jeremiah''s pit do we shuffle
Starved and sunken? For as long as
It keeps productivity on the rise
They'll do their utmost to grind
Down your particle size
Score by score, scar by scar
Seven veils for seven eagles of the ninth
Sold short, the clearance sale
The golden years all spines are spires now
All blue-shifted and gifted with their own
Cubic metre of breathing space
Petroleum rivers in their veins
They drink from
The drains, eat from the gutters
A generation shackled to cackling
Looms while fog chokes
The infants in weary cradles
And languid wombs
All piers a'peering, appearing all
Sunlight on walnut, Barrel-chested
And salt-invested, gilded limpets
On family trees
Out on a limb but not all at sea
Sombre oil wept from betwixt charcoal lips
Naught but lubricant for concrete lungs
And it'll take more than a
Golden city's glister to convince
That it's not just glass
And paint and well-placed-mirrors
They drink from
The drains, eat from the gutters
A generation shackled to cackling
Looms while fog chokes
The infants in weary cradles
And languid wombs and they are told
In no uncertain terms that God knows
Every man under the sun
But 'tis spiteful lunacy ye who
Have never beheld the sun
Who is to say you are under it
Like the frozen rooftop rip's the
Toes from pigeon's feet
So too the mule's on desperate hands
A-stamping weaving fingers 'mongst textiles
O'er this weary
Clock face, all digit's in a circle
All hands in their place
It's been a long walk
On these tattered souls
Just to be slot, odd cogs even-shaped holes
Grinding down and down like a
Tapeworm in the gut
The shifted of paradigms: sandstone
And white noise let these mainsprings rust
There's lots to be thrown in, but into
What Jeremiah''s pit do we shuffle
Starved and sunken? For as long as
It keeps productivity on the rise
They'll do their utmost to grind
Down your particle size
Score by score, scar by scar
Seven veils for seven eagles of the ninth
Sold short, the clearance sale
The golden years all spines are spires now
All blue-shifted and gifted with their own
Cubic metre of breathing space
Petroleum rivers in their veins
They drink from
The drains, eat from the gutters
A generation shackled to cackling
Looms while fog chokes
The infants in weary cradles
And languid wombs
All piers a'peering, appearing all
Sunlight on walnut, Barrel-chested
And salt-invested, gilded limpets
On family trees
Out on a limb but not all at sea
Sombre oil wept from betwixt charcoal lips
Naught but lubricant for concrete lungs
And it'll take more than a
Golden city's glister to convince
That it's not just glass
And paint and well-placed-mirrors