fast and bulbous

talking bout' that old time religion
in that spaceage bluesman voice
a tin teardrop
tells a story
of dropouts in disgrace

they make babies
boogieing like beelzebub
through bomb shelters and poppie fields
smiling at prostitutes and businessmen making deals

peaceniks that talk bout' politics and idolize the
old farts sinking in the swamp
their little eyes wide open
unfocused and electric

their main man is a mysterious old wizard
with an ashstray heart shaped like a antelopes gizzard
he shouts rhetoric,
rules for living
and casting spells
for creating heaven and abolishing hell
but the children of the revolution know all too well;

life's better in high society
than in a cell

but that don't drain them
of their endless complainin'
and nothing can stop the stop the sound
of the animal blues
that the madman is playin'

listening to the theatre of eternal music

those endless echoeng sounds of pain and terror
creaking in the old cellar, coming out in the morbid night
they speak the minds of the disillusioned and disturbed
never stopping, never ceasing
relentless and infernal like the fires of discontent
that burn in the mind of the sun
and torture the sinners in hell

but sometimes a voice of beauty arises in the malestrom
and rises to speak a tale of redemption
we listen with our always almost shut
knowing that soon enough the morbid truth will be revealed

since when was optimism not a joke?

can we hope to find a truth that will not drive us insane?
maybe not, maybe we're doomed to wallow in this idiotic death trip

but either way we linger on
and in the back of the mind the orchestra plays
screaming, shouting, droning and droning and droning
that mad infernal noise
that damages the ears
yet leaves the mind devoid of pain