we’re still sowing in the finite fields
we’re so content to live under a curse
we’re still fabricating paradise
with the thorns, with the flies and dirt

hold out for the upgrade, man
let go of your sinking sand
this bent world’s not the promised land
this feeble frame’s not meant to stand

this is just the flesh it’s just the blood
it’s really not, it’s not that tough
the bruised the fragile, cut up, scratched and scarred
it’s just the feeble – just the feeble stuff