King mob in a plastic iceberg

Smoking water damaged cigarettes

Observe as he works your wasteland

Pulling punches that you never met



Controlled in a listless air stream

Jets are breathing in his latex eyes

True to form, he is scared to touch them

And your wasteland stays vandalized



Success in a cut glass wardrobe

All the clothes loose like shredded hair

Dream escapes to a closet class war

King mob in a smashed wheel chair



Nerve gas for the walking wounded

Suffocating in a sadists' prayer

Flaming horses on a fading landscape

Break the surface but there is no air



King mob as he vents his anger

Throws a brick through the city gates

Backfires on his wordless offspring

The population disintegrates



Cold stream plus a wash of carbon

Drives his mind like an engine room

Cogs turning like a flawed stage whisper

King mob sings a lifeless tune



Surface stop

Pressure drop

King mob



Faded wrists and the risks worth taking

Cleans his blade with dreams he froze

Metal moments fed on foreign textures

Breaks his mind with the things he knows



King mob at his withered console

Electric arcades run on secret oils

Flicks a switch and he's the God of anger

Pulls a handle and the wasteland spoils