They presume themselves great
They see themselves as masters
Twisting words to their design
It doesn't work that way
It sounds hollow to the tormented
And they can't help but question
"Who are you
To tell us what we are
Who is to say you're not the demons
You paint us as?
Perhaps...
We are innocent
And you are the guilty ones"
The former masters will fall
To be slaves
And the pattern will repeat again
This is how it was
Is now
And will be
The never ending circular pattern of life