Womb Of Fire

Wolves in the Throne Room

She draws her weapon elegantly and places it upon her lips
 Now her words shine the Red and the scent of roses
 Come let her take you by her little white hands
 And guide you to the fields of calla lilies
 Let the fiery reds muffle your eyes
 Inspect her neck and see all the precious ornaments
 You know you're going to be the one in the middle of her chest.
 The one between her breasts as she stands over you in complete confidence.

 There is no need for knights in shining armor
 They'll only rust in her water
 See the pilings at her feet
 We are expendable bags of meat
 Womb of Fire.