Mycenaeans

Lyrics

The means of our dominance washes about our feet Our Bronze Age of progress splintered upon the reef Five days or fifty years, we'll soon be fate's debris Impatient nations north of here, hunger to make history With no means of trade, crushed is our maritime might Foreign sandals upon our sands, will we last the night? Five days or fifty years, we'll soon feel fate's teeth Impatient nations north of here, hunger to make history What Gods do we turn to, which priestess do we believe? The ones who clutch snakes, or those who point to the sea? Every ship and sail swallowed by the generous one A naval nation's stay of execution What will the Greeks think when they see what we've become? Delusion, chaos, and cannibalism