Plow deep - awaken, sleeping sluggards
Extend a sick arm to the things that you want
A chest inflated with false drive
Will only draw phymatic breaths
In silence
Laid here still I await the trumpets of an end, so dear
A judgement which safely I can say, got everything right
We might've not tried our best, our best always comes next year
We're insane to believe that in our tent we can't be touched