There's no chance to hide away no more,
no call in sick, no chance to get away.
They have ways to monitor our fear.
Special implants, devices in our ears.
Mr. Cock will promise we'll be safe,
as long we pay and read up on the graves.
Information classified code red,
(?) and I don't want to die.
Die.
Die.
Die.
Mr. Cock, well I think we share the same fate,
the creeds and muse on Facebook and MySpace.
In Twenty Twelve, when hippies roamed the street.
(?) as long as we won't... as long as we won't die.
Die.
Die.
Die.
