This Is My Goat, Log Testo

Twelve suited men lie screaming in pain
on the unyielding floor of their unyielding policies.
Stringent and crude,
unethical and rude
were bleeding across basement walls.
Four more musicians too broke for lunch,
admire the twelve sickly dead corpses.
Rather than waste,
just one quick taste.
Tender as the crowbar allows.