Bad blood wells from the troubled ground Where prophets breed and faith comes cheap Like fast words spilled from a careless mouth They’re hollow leeches, preying on our minds
Small men kneel at the riverside This will be a fallow season
Twelve dogs leashed in a salesman's yard Their bellies full, their fangs are greasy No fire, no dreams, no chase at heart The wild hunt has been tamed These are the signs
Small men buy what they can't deny This will be a fallow season
And the darkness will surround us Shadows grow like walls around us Rats and preachers hide in the corners Draw your knives It ain’t over
Let the greedy strangle the blind
Small men fall and their cities die Let this be a fallow season
