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• Artiste: Honor System, The
• Titre: Conquistadors
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feet touch dirt, hands touch the sky clothes we made hang from a line we've watched as siblings die and pray we never will sing these work songs silently melodies of a thousand years add a new verse everyday a tour bus passes now and then, glaring souls as black as night spirits maimed and crippled could never understand this life their sympathy is laughable, we are the wealthiest alive the hotels keep crawling nearer the hum of bulldozers grows louder their work songs blaze like bugles in our ears the sickness is ambition, an insatiable appetite to put their flags up everywhere, to burn down and build again can you hold these ashes, tell yourself it was really worth the price? Plastic priests on "great" missions Conquistadors with wicked grins your treasure is a myth no use in digging here