I think the hurly-burly's done
The homo sapien's lost his fun
The spirit father's son of man
Can walk above, maintain his tan
There is no greater fish to fry
The fish beneath our feet do fly
But this man walks where we cannot
We must assure that he will rot
His magic does not understand
The limitations of a man
Look at him bleed
Look at him bleed
No other corpse is cause to feed
What it sounds like.
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