Motorcade of flesh;
follow the one in front.
Green grass slopes either side,
but I am content with cyanide
for I have a skip to my stride.
I move in a motion;
conviction and purpose.
I have no regard for the living -
I am the gift that keeps on giving
without any forgiving.
Chained to dull frolicking
and weary administration.
I am never free.
I can\'t hope to be
more than a delivery.
Night descends fast
and I swim through the cold.
But the engines keep turning
and I find myself burning
at the end of the river\'s concerning.