Those little tin people that walk in the streets, with clocks in their hearts and clay on their feet. They worship the dollar and drink of their blood, they canít look to heaven with their face in the mud.
They are constantly running in search of the truth, seeking a pseudo god in a shark skin suit. Their pennies are paid to see the parade of the bones of their gods who are laid to waste.
Their children are echoes of their own greed, with dead plants from a mindless and withered seed. Their hearts aren't friendly and with faces of stone, they all march together so they can be alone.
They chant in time to the beat of war, for peace is a word of times before . . .