Black Mass

We are sons of a bastard mother
our air is tyranny
it runs deep through our veins,
our flesh is soaked with it
no ideals, nothing better
of this old vintage shit
We are the scum of welfare
the means sons of History

We’re yelling at the end of times
We crackle, we jump, we laugh and have fun
before the great blast

We live for delirious dreams
we’re dead for a bunch of coins
all dull, all doped to death
it’s called mediocracy
they look with paranoia
what’s keeping us alive
our war is spiritual
against our fathers’ void

We’re yelling at the end of times
We crackle, we jump, we laugh and have fun
before God’s great blast

No, no, no no,
We won’t swallow anymore…
No, no, no no,
We won’t swallow anymore…

We’re yelling at the end of times
we’re the remainings!

We’re yelling at the end of times
We crackle, we jump, we laugh and have fun
here comes the great blast!

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