The lies we tell, entangled in the minds of young and weakened men.
The lies we give to naive girls, their minds we bend and twist and curl.
The games we play and call pretend, we gamble with their hearts in sin.
The truth becomes a fairy tale, forgotten, lost and buried well.
A slave to lust and friend to greed, and we become the lie; a seed.
A seed we sow with hidden strife, a wish in vain, we give it life.
We harvest fruit with guilt and shame. But innocence is what we claim.
And many come to taste this fruit, with sweet and sour, rotten juice.
A wine consumed to numb a pain endured by men of clout and fame.
And in these men the masses trust. And addicts made of lore and lust.
Intoxicated, happy slaves, that joy in digging their own graves.
But in their death no man does cry for worshiping a living lie.
