The Wretched Mills Lyrics

Petroleum rivers in their veins; they drink from the drains, eat from the gutters, a generation shackled to cackling looms while fog chokes the infants in weary cradles and languid wombs. And they are told, in no uncertain terms that God knows every man under the sun. But 'tis spiteful lunacy; ye who have never beheld the sun, who is to say you are under it.

Like the frozen rooftop rip's the toes from pigeon's feet, so too the mule's on desperate hands a-stamping; weaving fingers 'mongst textiles o'er this weary clock face, all digits in a circle, all hands in their place. It's been a long walk on these tattered souls, just to be slot, odd cogs even-shaped holes, grinding down and down like a tapeworm in the gut. The shifted of paradigms: sandstone, and white noise. Let these mainsprings rust!

There's lots to be thrown in, but into what Jeremiah''s pit do we shuffle, starved and sunken? For as long as it keeps productivity on the rise, they'll do their utmost to grind down your particle size. Score by score, scar by scar, seven veils for seven eagles of the ninth. Sold short, the clearance sale, the golden years. All spines are spires now, all blue-shifted and gifted with their own cubic metre of breathing space. Petroleum rivers in their veins; they drink from the drains, eat from the gutters, a generation shackled to cackling looms while fog chokes the infants in weary cradles and languid wombs.

All piers a'peering, appearing all sunlight on walnut, barrel-chested and salt-invested, gilded limpets on family trees, out on a limb but not all at sea. Sombre oil wept from betwixt charcoal lips, naught but lubricant for concrete lungs, and it'll take more than a golden city's glister to convince that it's not just glass and paint and well-placed-mirrors...