Progress is a myth
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If not for he who suffered and gave himself away
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At the hands of fools and lesser men
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False idols and kings
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Who came to rule through circumstance
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Work him like a dog
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With a ball and chain and thanklessness
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The dice have been cast
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No turning back
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Eyes on the ground
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Where he will die
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Feet nailed to the floor
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Reason to be
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Shoulder to the Plow
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Facing down the wind
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He'll see the way they'll never change
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Watch his slow decay
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As bottles drain and days go by
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Forging his demise
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Through poison vice to sap the mind
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Iron was a will
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Now passions wane and spirits die
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The weight on his chest
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Aches in his flesh
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Dreams of a day that never comes
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Ax pressed to the wheel
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Bones ground to dust
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Shoulder to the Plow
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Ground down into dust for a taste of their good life
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Left their screams, left their souls behind
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Work him dead
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Let him rot
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Shoulder to the Plow
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Artillery |