Proud portraits of a doctored page,   a shadow cast upon a missing page.   Quaint crafts and artifacts   round well-refined collections.   In defeat the heads are hung,   in the galleries of shopped retail   the hollowed eyes of the once defiant   mark the End of The Trail.      Severed Heads, Severed Heads   rest on the mantel piece in dead display.      And with the cunnning art of seizure,   ship the spoils off to Rome   to please hearts of leisure.   On walls of "Better Homes"   secret histories are told.   In the stone of stately alabaster   stolen heads hold up the throne,   say servants of their master.      Severed Heads, Severed Heads...      Their culture cuts like knives,   the modern thought of white design.   I wouldn't say they spared my life.   They fashion roles to hijack souls   and label them as their own.      And in the proud halls of Wharton,   the unspoken rule is known   that the wealth of nations   is the appropriation   of an image as their own.