| I’m the sadist that reminds you of your blessing
|
| And the reaper that takes them away
|
| To a place where they can lay there
|
| And wilt and rot away
|
| And this cell’s just as cold as you left it
|
| And I’m scratching the walls to escape it
|
| Leave it to the Cannibal now
|
| Feed him what’s left of us, the rest of us
|
| Leave it to the Cannibal now
|
| Feed him what’s left of us. |
| The Cunning wins again
|
| I’m the glorified liar sending you sentiment
|
| And then posing as the innocent
|
| You don’t know about ignorance or pain
|
| But you said you could take it away
|
| And this cell’s just as cold as you left it
|
| And I’m scratching the walls to escape it
|
| Leave it to the Cannibal now
|
| Feed him what’s left of us, the rest of us
|
| Leave it to the Cannibal now
|
| Feed him what’s left of us. |
| The Cunning wins again
|
| You call this inspiration. |
| I call this a charade
|
| Driven by institution. |
| Hell-bent on cleaning the stain
|
| I should grab all these cannibals, lay them all in a straight line
|
| And deny their requests for more, more, more
|
| Leave it to the Cannibal now
|
| Feed him what’s left of us, the rest of us
|
| Leave it to the Cannibal now
|
| Feed him what’s left of us. |
| The Cunning wins again |