The Mars Volta

There with him, his error
We are sacrosanct
I'm taunting arraignments to you
My swatch had fit the holster
My faith burned every house
Like no other manger
I am emptier without
Bear them, servants
Three to a pall
Marks the venom
Lushing terminal
When I became a larva
You fed me from your plate
Now my slouch is nervous
Sinking by the face
Wrinkled by this gravel
Skinless trace of time
You wear cobwebs proudly
In your cheap and brittle sighs
My glands emit this carnage
These pews bend back our knees
That uniform it wears you
When the ulcer made him bleed
Bear them, servants