The flowers all shriveled and died Nothing survives Near the cages where they fail to keep the animals alive The view of a grand graveside Where martyrs reside The fallen figures of a dream that we can’t revive And we are tourists Simply tourists Watching the funeral of life At last the last disciples burn Eight billion parasitic worms An ocean swallowing the shore Pain now and pain forever more Behind the walls we speak with candors of rats A hidden instinct to self preserve ignore the pack As fear transcends the greater good Desire in control The sentence of the skin To walk amongst the beasts below And we are tourists Watching the funeral of life Undeserving of the petty possessions A shelf of bones your trophies bought in blood Absent at birth an unimmaculate conception Return to dirt allow the gardens to flood The view of a grand graveside There’ll be no flowers when we die We lurch Into our hearse Eight billion parasitic worms Return to the dirt There’ll be no flowers when we die