Economic Desire is a Tough God to Beat

The dead pilots swing from the trees, the sky bleeds orange,
This life is in turmoil, calling for a thousand cleansing fires.

Self-cast immolation, burning off parasites
that flew too close to the sun.
The day of purification nears,
and those wax wings they already melt.

No one left at the wheel, fatal sound of progress,
Life disintegrated, and calling for a new way of life.

Control of our fate is slipping from our hands.

Crushed in the gears of progress.
This way of living is a ticking clock.

The dead pilots swing from the trees, the sky bleeds orange,
This life is in turmoil, calling for a thousand cleansing fires.
Progress?
This way of life is nothing but a ticking clock.