pseudo safari - animalfarm (fl) lyrics
no dusty roads, no wild beast
no jeep, no sk!ll, non*wild hunting
pseudo safari
locked in cages
specimens, races
species faces
helpless, fangless, virtually defenseless
spastic yet systematic, the slaughter for profit
pull the lever
the trophy is blood and bone
reassurance in slaughter
we are still number one
we are kings
we own you
we own the land and every brand
we own the air that you breathe and we’re taking it back
the fur, the scales
the hide, the feathers
all the frightened eyes that lurked behind those cages
begging for a motive for their murder
trapped in a corner, the fences separate sport from the wild
hunted down by twenty men at a time
blasted by buckshot, hundreds of shots
no trophy left, shredded to death at the firing line
trapped in a corner, the fences separate sport from the wild
hunted down by twenty men at a time
blasted by buckshot, hundreds of shots
no trophy left, shredded to death at the firing line
man is just a k!ller, destructive in nature, idiots
born to use up resources, breathe and ruin everything
man is just a ruthless k!ller
born to use up resources, breathe and ruin everything
such a joke, it makes me choke
the fine line between morality and death as the shade cloaks
hunters hiding in plain sight
endangered species sprayed with the fragments
lead punctures their flesh
organs torn and muscles frayed
bones are snapped and blood does spray
your kind is gone
all that is left is the weight of the bounty on your head that will crush your bones
as your shoulders are pushed together and your cranium implodes
what will you do, how will you defend yourself from these juggernauts?
no dusty roads, no wild beast
no jeep, no sk!ll, non*wild hunting
pseudo safari
locked in cages
specimens, races
species faces
helpless, fangless, virtually defenseless
spastic yet systematic, the slaughter for profit
trapped in a corner, the fences separate sport from the wild
hunted down by twenty men at a time
blasted by buckshot, hundreds of shots
no trophy left, shredded to death at the firing line
trapped in a corner, the fences separate sport from the wild
hunted down by twenty men at a time
blasted by buckshot, hundreds of shots
no trophy left, shredded to death at the firing line
hung from ropes, hooked and soaked
bled and dying, clinging to hope
pray for your god, he isn’t there, no
hand from above saving you from this despair
your life was wasted living in greed
war for money, murder for sport
why are you so surprised your life has been cut short?
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