with the might of wasps in traps   sixty ways of it coming back   and you left yours up to chance   but with help we'll start fires within   and burn through the glass   and it's not my need to see   if the dead still dance   but it's in my design to believe that they're buried   to keep their old wearied and ivory bones held intact      i'll charge off fast   keeping greater distance from present and past   under dark clouds from smoke stacks   where strange birds circle the sky   in arranged paths      so the prince of shells and crabs   moved the air with battery packs   and brought floods that burst through dams   wearing two bits of pride   that father had forged him from wax   somehow grace pours out from monstrous acts