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ICONS OF FILTH - Grind

Grind, to powders fine, submissive kinds of tiny minds.
Junkies need the daily read.
The lies and the trash, exchanged for cash.
The pestle and the mortar slowly grind, the last dregs of any sane thought from your mind.
The pestle and the mortar slowly grind, the last dregs of any sane thought from your mind.
Blue, printed views, are they news, or half truths?
The broad, sheets are stored, in narrow minds and memorised.
The pestle and the mortar slowly grind, the last dregs of any sane thought from your mind.
The pestle and the mortar slowly grind, the last dregs of any sane thought from your mind.
Now you're blind... blind... blind... blind... blind... blind.
Tabloids, to fill the void.
Disaster and scandal, all you can handle. 
The sales pitch of starving kids and fleshy pies for flaccid dicks.
The pestle and the mortar slowly grind, the last dregs of any sane thought from your mind.
The pestle and the mortar slowly grind, the last dregs of any sane thought from your mind.