I'm retching on the dirt,
|
It's earthiness coating my throat.
|
I'm wincing on the bitterest pill.
|
I refuse to swallow.
|
I'm offered the warmth of a velvet gloves,
|
An iron fist to some.
|
I'm treated like a scab.
|
A traitor in my kind.
|
I'm hounded by white-right might
|
That wants the country pure.
|
I'm incensed by those in awe
|
Of "living amongst their own".
|
Selective perfection will cut their own throats!
|
I'm constantly forcing the point,
|
But we're all retching on dist,
|
And we'll choke if we don't spit it out!
|
|
-----------------
|
Retching On The Dirt
|
| Napalm Death |
