Where are our blessed rags?
Where is our dance of life?
If we go on to blame ourselves
Will we find out we might be right?
And though things may seem the same on the outside
All the differences in these distant places bare the light
Crying the perfect cry we march with conviction for the lacking of our culture
And the lacking of our culture is sinking into our souls right through our eyes
The last one to know
The bright searing glow
Will witness the travesties
In the real horror show
The all inventive dance of the tortured mass
Spilling what makes man break down
Everything larger than himself
Not content without
Being on top
Harvest the crop
Time to stop
The ever growing urge for what was lost
The guilty-free love of beating a dead horse (x4)
I followed a blackbird that married a train
that ran down the guilty of indifferent shame
I followed a blackbird that married a train
that ran down the guilty of indifferent shame