The turtle headed street car, as it lumbered through the dark,
out of the land of misery, slowly made it's start.

The empty endless agony, of things that came apart,
and all those many other empty things, that didn't have a heart.

The open minded sorcery, that made flames in the night,
the twisted magic memory, the spirit of the fight.

Of all the open neon, that spilled upon the street,
that harsh volcanic vomit landed on my feet.

Infinite pleasure plunders even empty men,
whose sodden eyes are open, to the pillage once again.

Mister misery came before us, and all that said goodbye,
all the vacant strangers, that never meant to die.

Once the hamstrung heroes, were meat out in the street,
the tundra trudged in turmoil, would simmer in the heat.

The shattered hour glass, seems to've lost it's sand,
the pages on the calendar, the clock without no hands.

The vacuum of the moment, the void between your eyes,
the endless cacophony, and lunacy of the wise.

The waves roll unceasingly, turning mountains into sand,
the broken hearted beggar, the one without no hands,
turns forever towards me, leglessly he stands.

Never more to be here, banished now he's gone,
as the drifting milkweed, dying on the lawn.

His plexiglas complexion, sterilized by dawn,
draws an empty promise, forever more be gone.

The wisdom of the warriors, eating up their dead,
the insight of the foolish ones, who should've kept their heads.

Comes upon us needlessly, let nothing more be said.

Echoes of the dustballs, as they rolled on down the drain,
forty years of famine, forty years of rain,
plus ten score years of plain old fear,
and one whole day of pain.

The fraying of the wires, and the twisting of the knife,
the endless drip, drip, dripping, the whore that is the wife,
and all those those other pretty things that keep us all alive.

Tumbling broken buildings are decaying in the street,
with rust upon the crust, of scabs of festered meat,
and all those hungry eyes who say, your soul I'd like to eat.