Island of Servitude Lyrics

Iron in clay.
The anchor sways at the bottom of the bay.
"Swaying boats are the worst".

Tie our long ropes to the cleats by the shore.

Each aching time a rope is brought at me,
I long for hope and good intentions.
The savant man that once belonged in me,
cries in depth the loss of fervor.

Another style of life
awaiting us who bathe in servitude.
"You're one with the poor".

The wind is tight, flowing through my gills,
coughing up the dust and sand of old glories.
Stories will tell of lust that conquers love.

By love, my sweet remains will crush into grains
and find their way, as I found my lay,
spread across the bay.