I feel my temperature rise
You can't hear me though
And when I reach down inside
It's dead in telephone
I am the mistake of embryotic drool
When I come climbing up, out of the ooze

Camouflage the religion
Smell the consequence
Oh, I am runnin' a fire that's lit in seven beds
Inside the maker I do not have such time
Cut your camera in hopes our line rewinds