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• Artiste: Breaking Wheel
• Titre: Shoulder to the Plow
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INCORRECT: avant la mauvaise ligne
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Progress is a myth If not for he who suffered and gave himself away At the hands of fools and lesser men False idols and kings Who came to rule through circumstance Work him like a dog With a ball and chain and thanklessness The dice have been cast No turning back Eyes on the ground Where he will die Feet nailed to the floor Reason to be Shoulder to the Plow Facing down the wind He'll see the way they'll never change Watch his slow decay As bottles drain and days go by Forging his demise Through poison vice to sap the mind Iron was a will Now passions wane and spirits die The weight on his chest Aches in his flesh Dreams of a day that never comes Ax pressed to the wheel Bones ground to dust Shoulder to the Plow Ground down into dust for a taste of their good life Left their screams, left their souls behind Work him dead Let him rot