lirik lagu the meads of asphodel - a forgotten key to a conundrum of hate
palestinian child intro speech
“and let history know the number of bombs, it k!lls the children and destroys the houses, and let days speak about the betrayal of rulers. and the conspiracy of the regime as if they were monkeys. and the battalion of al qusam, refuses to surrender, it keeps moving forward as if they were thunder, and are many in number. its ideology is luminous, in its heart is foresight, its weapon is solidarity, so come ‘o brothers, lets keep going forward to paradise, so we catch up with the delegation, our blood is pure, our souls are proud, our lives are a gift to the lord we worship, our weapon is faith, patience and solace, and we supplicate to the most merciful, that accept the testimonies.”
kings of fleas, patriots
throne of flies, fanatics
swarm of gnats, terrorists
rodent idols, -ss-ssins
nakba, k!ll ‘em all
every f-cker & his mother hates some f-cking one
israel, k!ll ‘em all
every f-cker & his mother hates some f-cking one
islamic state, k!ll ‘em all
every f-cker & his mother hates some f-cking one
zionists, k!ll ‘em all
star of david, spitting hatred, on star & crescent moon
nakba, k!ll ‘em all
every f-cker & his mother hates some f-cking one
israel, k!ll ‘em all
every f-cker & his mother hates some f-cking one
we hate you all, we always will
east hates west, south hates north
cankerworm, sons of christ
reaping choices, with sour scythes
behold a land where thieves clad in gold become a sacrifice to chaos
palestine, this dark abortive blunder that is three gods, three weeds from one root, an abomination of a desert nomad’s mumblings
this is the forgotten key to a conundrum of hate
the morning star, has lost its gleam
k!ll your dreams, the dreams you dream
we count the cost of crescent & cross
explosive belts, where all is lost
nakba, k!ll ‘em all
every f-cker & his mother hates some f-cking one
israel, k!ll ‘em all
every f-cker & his mother hates some f-cking one
come feast upon gods glory, but heaven tastes of rotting meat, come drink from the fountain of grace, but only if you like warm p-ss
we write the word ‘freedom’ in the seductive puddle of warm blood
yet, freedom is an illusion in the nadir of unfettered violence, and war, the epitome of human indifference
yet amongst the seemingly timeless autumn of echoing sobs, there is always the tiniest leaf of humanity to cover the bones of hope from the all darkening shadow of dripping woe
we wander the ulcerated land worshiping the grotesque reflections of god in the mirrors of madmen, with our eyes burning like fires in angry caves
in the end, we are all just players in this ethnic gang rape pantomime
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