In the autumn of nineteen ninety eight,
I lost the last sane part of my poor brain.
Nature, she loves to exsanguinate,
Strip my soul ‘till all of my blood drains.
Mother, she feasts on entropy!
If there’s a god up above,
It’s not a spirit of love,
It’s not a being
of goodness or light;
It’s dark matter, a cancer, a blight.
I’m the son of a plumber and bookkeeper,
Though my family is full of teachers.
But the lesson I’ve learned from those meeker
Is that we're all just servants of the reaper.
Mother, she has no empathy!
Mother, she has no empathy!
If there’s a god up above,
It’s not a spirit of love,
It’s not a being of goodness or light;
It’s dark matter, a cancer, a blight.
My grandparents, they poured their love on me,
But their neurons nursed on nicotine.
And while the rich, they profit on disease,
We bow, deluded, praying on our knees.
Mother, she knows no equity!
If there’s a god up above,
It’s not a spirit of love,
It’s not a being of goodness or light;
It’s dark matter, a cancer, a blight.