The Harvest of the Weak

They wait for then, and in the end
The lead machines will eat the men
Feeble minds can't comprehend
Metal teeth that tear the flesh
The binding contract of a race's death

Children who were born too young
Those broken over who cannot run
The world evolving that isn't done
This mass collection of the meak
The final harvest of the weak

Reaping forever what was sown
Here, thickets of waste have grown
Of all the problems we must own
This one will finally end
On this, our lives depend

Hand in our food, blood in our drink