| Song | Retching On The Dirt |
| Artist | Napalm Death |
| Album | Fear Emptiness Depair |
| I'm retching on the dirt | |
| It's earthiness coating my throat | |
| I'm wincing on the bitterest pill | |
| I refuse to swallow | |
| I'm offered the warmth of a velvet glove | |
| An iron fist to some | |
| I'm treated like a scab | |
| A traitor in my kind | |
| I'm hounded by white-right might | |
| That wants the country pure | |
| I'm incensed by those in awe | |
| Of living amongst their own | |
| Selective perfection will cut their own throats | |
| I'm constantly forcing the point | |
| But we're all retching on dirt | |
| And we'll choke if we don't spit it out |