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Pull the plug, pour gasoline on the circuit boardMake sure that all of their future transmissions failMelt all the buttons, cut all the wires that lead to anotherTie them together to make a glorified bowWe should plan out our escapeWe all let this build upIt's partly my faultYou're their marketRun awayThis engine runs off weak minds that will not growWhat's that hint of accomplishmentYou so often would lean against as your crutchPay no attention to far off sparks you see in the dark, dark snow capped hillsIt's just your machine I killed
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