[00:00.00] 作曲 : Mantic Ritual, Wetmore[00:33.84]In the corridors of institutions,[00:35.31]There’s a putrid smell[00:35.85]Of rotting minds.[00:36.33]That beg for something real to hold,[00:38.16]Instead of processed[00:39.27]Useless lies.[00:39.63]Mothers whore their weeks away.[00:43.53]As daughters learn,[00:43.89]To do the same.[00:44.16]As years wear on, we’ll see the day,[00:45.78]When numbers take[00:46.77]The place of names.[00:47.97]This is the force that marks new breath,[00:49.77]It’s thrashing death.[00:53.61]It’s thrashing death.[00:55.80]It seems that in a place so free,[00:57.51]The price for words[00:58.47]Are hardly such.[00:59.46]So sick of trendy censorship,[01:01.53]So I can’t speak[01:02.31]You’re made to suck.[01:03.30]Perceived as dirt because we think,[01:05.46]To know there’s something[01:06.42]Truly wrong.[01:16.59]Gun out the thrash and bang your head,[01:23.43]Bullets tonight,[01:24.51]Ten million strong.[01:24.96]Thrashatonement- Burning in my eyes.[01:26.13]Thrashatonement- For every wasted life.[02:14.28]Their standards work them to no end.[02:16.53]So that the mind,[02:17.04]Cannot roam free.[02:18.24]All conversations sound the same.[02:20.19]Everyone is the[02:21.12]Same to me.[02:21.96]The creative souls that aren’t tamed,[02:24.90]Are quarantined,[02:25.38]And locked away.[02:26.34]The stats quo suits them fine,[02:27.84]But only grows them,[02:44.25]Crooked spines.