Beast of Carthage

Home of the oaks
 and the weeds.
 And the thrash that will cover us
 given any time.
 Stranded at the tournament, soaking up blood.
 Nourished by the black art of the palace floor.
 Charging up the hill into machine guns
 with a plumed helmet and a broken sword.
 And the ice, sewage ice
 it's selling like hot cakes, additive slime.
 Herded to a yellow-taped
 cordonned off place.
 We were just conscripts forced to wield arms.
 Lining up the pit with pointed sticks
 drive the men downhill into the pit.
 And the ice, sewage ice.
 It's selling like hot cakes, additive slime
 Beast of Carthage makes his call.
 A carrion smell in the foreman's yard.
 Climbing up the digsite
 just for some asshole named Halliwell on the phone for you.