An auburn haze descends this autumn night
Pollutants pry their fingers down throats
As children play in the poisonous air
Their parents cast clandestine votes
In suits of grey and navy blue they march
Towards the pyre they have created
A witches mass for the squealing pigs
The peasants’ bloodlust will be satiated
The witchfinder general will sniff you out
Those who will not persecute before the flame
For in the messiah’s eyes destitute
He see’s his angels must suffer the same
Yet the auburn haze it still claims the sky
The throats feel the pressure of unseen hands
Children don’t come home anymore
Not red nor blue but yellow death colours these lands
