I'll see you at the weighing in when your life's sum-total's made. And you set your wealth in godly deeds against the sins you've laid. So place your final burden on your hard-pressed next of kin: Send the chamber pot back down the line to be filled up again. Take your mind off your election and try to get it straight. And don't pretend perfection: you'll be crucified too late. And he'll say you really should make the deal as he offers round the hat. Well, you'd better lick your fingers clean, I thank you all for that. And as you join the good ship earth and you mingle with the dust be sure to leave your underpants with someone you can trust. And the hard-headed social worker who bathes his hands in blood will welcome you with arms held high and cover you with mud. And he'll say you really should make the deal as he offers round the hat. Well, you'd better lick your fingers clean, well. I'll thank you all for that.
There's the stillness of death on a deathly unliving sea, and the motor car magical world long since ceased to be, when the Eve-bitten apple returned to destroy the tree. Incestuous ancestry's charabanc ride, spawning new millions throws the world on its side. Supporting their far-flung illusion, the national curse, and those with no sandwiches please get off the bus. The excrement bubbles, the century's slime decays and the brainwashing government lackeys
would have us say it's under control and we'll soon be on our way to a grand year for babies and quiz panel games of the hot hungry millions you'll be sure to remain. The natural resources are dwindling and no one grows old, and those with no homes to go to, please dig yourself holes. We wandered through quiet lands, felt the first breath of snow. Searched for the last pigeon, slate grey I've been told. Stumbled on a daffodil which she crushed in the rush, heard it sigh, and left it to die. At once felt remorse and were touched by the loss of our own, held its poor broken head in her hands, dropped soft tears in the snow, and it's only the taking that makes you what you are. Wond'ring aloud will a son one day be born to share in our infancy in the child's path we've worn. In the aging seclusion of this earth that our birth did surprise we'll open his eyes.