My fire-breathing voice
In spirits, buried, and in earth
Tarried, whipped for all its worth
It's just another lazy Sunday
Like any day a year
It's just another lazy Sunday
And Monday comes the fear
My well-disfigured countenance
In falls and stitch-ups, like the scree
In the fume-baked chaparral
For memories unwanted please:
Send unpaid to Marisol
Send unpaid, now if you see:
I pull the hope off babies
So you say well so you say
It was you who asked for punishment
For rolling in the hay
Is it any wonder
That the oil is alive?
It's come to burn us down
To a rodent's frame of mind
Not the children
You may grow
Not the children
Not the children
Not the children













