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lyrics
Our time is coming, better buckle up. Our time is coming, better run. You had your chance to eat that junk food, baby. You had your chance to have some fun. But when the runoff of your pleasure congeals miles off the coast. Deep down with Davy Jones' treasure. Possessed with Darwin's fucking ghost. That rumble ain't tectonic shifting. That echo ain't no morning bird. Erupting gas lines for the lucky, a flooded city for the poor. We're the infection. Gotta flush us out can't take no more. The world is healing, and it's the pus come bubblin' in the sore. It's 50 meters when it raises. A mile wide when it crashes. A township melted by the mucus. The flesh is burned with just a splash. But when the fighter jets are scrambled, the payload 7 megatons. The detonation right on target fuels it like Kal-El's yellow sun. We're the infection. Gotta flush us out can't take no more. The world is healin' and it's the pus come bubblin' in the sore. We had our chance to prevent it, but big business got in the way. So keep that heed in the back of your fuckin' brain when it's staring down at your face. Our time is coming, better buckle up. Our time is coming, better run. You had your chance to eat that junk food, baby. You had your chance to have some fun.
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