You have your very own number. They dress your cage in its nature. Once you roared now you just grunt lame. Pace around pathetic pound games. Wanna get out won't miss you sensaround. To carry your own dead to swing your tyre tricks. Wanna get out in here you're bred dead quick. For the outside. The small black flowers that grow in the sky. They drag sticks along your walls. Harvest your ovaries dead mothers crawl. Here comes warden christ temple elders. Environment not yours you see through it all. Wanna get out won't miss you sensaround. Carry your own dead to swing your tyre tricks. Wanna get out in here you're bred dead quick. For the outside. The small black flowers that grow in the sky.