You have your very own number
They dress your cage in its nature
Once you roared now you just grunt lame
Pace around pathetic pound games
Want to get out, won't miss you, sensaround,
To carry your own dead, to swing your tyre tricks
Want to get out, in here you're bred dead quick
For the outside
The small black flowers that grow in the sky
They drag sticks along your walls
Harvest your ovaries dead mothers crawl
Here comes warden, Christ, temple, elders
Environment not yours you see through it all
Want to get out, won't miss you, sensaround,
To carry your own dead, to swing your tyre tricks
Want to get out, in here you're bred dead quick
For the outside
The small black flowers that grow in the sky
Here chewing your tail is joy