All the flowers they wither away
All the flowers wither, and turn into hay.
General purpose, the sickle of gloom
Passion washed away, this flower won't bloom.

Life's too long I think
The smell of decay, the stink
And you sink

All the flowers they wither away
All the flowers wither, and turn into hay.
Plant yor roots and they will be eaten
Stay untied and be be severely beaten
Trust me your life, all of it
Unity, control and profit.
Would you serve?