Progress is a myth
If not for he who suffered and gave himself away
At the hands of fools and lesser men

False idols and kings
Who came to rule through circumstance
Work him like a dog

With a ball and chain and thanklessness

The dice have been cast

No turning back
Eyes on the ground
Where he will die

Feet nailed to the floor
Reason to be
Shoulder to the Plow


Facing down the wind
He'll see the way they'll never change

Watch his slow decay

As bottles drain and days go by

Forging his demise
Through poison vice to sap the mind
Iron was a will

Now passions wane and spirits die

The weight on his chest

Aches in his flesh
Dreams of a day that never comes
Ax pressed to the wheel

Bones ground to dust
Shoulder to the Plow


Ground down into dust for a taste of their good life
Left their screams, left their souls behind


Work him dead
Let him rot