Production

This man may have a shit load to prove He's got to settle a score against the groove Infinite orgasm, endless joy and pain Like thunder to my ears, like a holy rain An aural wall of waking, a wash in purple paint And a digging of the flowers in your yard Electric rays of healing intensify the feeling Of hatred towards the things you say I ain't Fear a man-child, his soul and semen Pathetic thoughts he thinks forever Heard you caused a landslide, walking home Saw you slide the man-child under your coat Product of your generation Product of your masturbation Product of a master plan Product of a holy man Product of infanticide Product of decaying minds Product of your ma*s corruption Product of, production, production