There’s no place for a thinker, In the Land of The Lost, Where the sheep are hand-reared, And the farmers are shot, The conveyer belt of shepherds, Soon lose their worth, When they open their eyes, From within the herd, There’s a blanket of confusion, A plan for every unit, Puppeteers dance with the devil, On your behalf, And should a voice stand tall, With the chest of a giant, To speak the words of the wise, His voice will be silenced, So in secret and in darkness, We find comfort in, While we plan our escape, To the Great Within,