Paroles: Quasar Wut-wut. March Of The Zug.

There?s a slow moving train
Rolling through the rain,
And a man with a hammer
Who is writhing around.

A certain school of thieves
Are watching from the trees.
They?re counting their splinters
Before they leap to the ground.

The sun?s dying rays
Ripping through the haze
Have betrayed the Technicolor
Madness in their eyes...

The Easy Street Sons of Kings
Are fucking with everything,
Now Spoonboy the Madpisser
Has escaped into the night.

The Sultans of the Swine
Are turning fish into wine.
They whisper their mantras
to the gods of the Right.

The moon?s lunar phase
Lends venom to the craze
That detonates like tidal waves
Tearing through their minds...

The bitches of the drain
Are fiending for the rain
That just cripples up their minds
With its spastic display.

An accessory to their trade
Poor Old Phineas Gage
Pleads to keep his faculties,
But is destined to fail.

The science of the sane
Has crumbled from the strain
Of trying to find a back door
From this landscape of Hell.