29 Mile Wind
All the people that I know have gotten strange,
they wear the faces of the horse, they see through eyes as black as tar, they stare at nothing but the sun,
they digest nothing but the rain, they wash their backs off with the wind,
they read about nothing more than pain.
And they're vicious and they're strict, and their stomach's always fed. And they are killers, and they are killers,
and they are killers, and they are killed.
And they piss and they shriek as they tie them to the trees. And they are killers, and they are killed, and they are killers, and they are me.
