Lyrics=
Mary and I watch the flames tonight
from the hill overlooking the city.
The buildings burn like a carousel
and the colors melted so pretty
We closed our eyes and looked within
while the world was filled with light
from the deck of the kingdom of wind
in between the curtains of night
Her fingers trace my stigmata,
as I begin to read her in Braille,
and the refugees on Walnut Street
have all begun to wail,
and the only sound remaining
as The Jordan River flows by,
are the questions that have no answers,
and can’t stop asking why
They’re playing chopsticks on the rib cage
of some forgotten sidewalk saint,
and the dark hosannas hit the mark.
Like a point guard in the paint
The oracular trends and patterns
have all closed down for the night.
Somewhere a werewolf is crying,
and the moon is full and bright.
But it got so very dark just now
when influencer-demons came.
To a cyber-sex orgy of timeshares
in a hedge fund dream of the same
The final prophet’s message was
when he ran out of words
The methamphetamine was gone
and the atmosphere was tight
He said his prayers were yet to come,
as the choir boys ran out of sight,
and the fires had all burned down.
nobody had a light
They’re playing chopsticks on the rib cage
of some forgotten sidewalk saint,
and the dark hosannas hit the mark.
Like a point guard in the paint.
They’re gathering the dreamers on a slow boat turnaround.
They’ll hold the auction soon cause the merchants are in town.
Ten angels in foreclosure pour out brimstone from the vaults,
as harpies from the underworld dine on Michel Foucault
Every tongue is shouting...... Babylon is born,
and Mary quite contrary has got Satan on the horn.
All the saints that you keep quoting, they all came undone.
I had to melt their halos down and teach them how to run
They sold relics from the rapture, while the sky was bleeding rust.
The church invisible had closed. The pews were filled with dust
Here comes witness protection. They’re singing out the name
of every Epstein Jerk-off clown who hasn’t died of shame
They’re playing chopsticks on the rib cage
of some forgotten sidewalk saint,
and the dark hosannas hit the mark.
Like a point guard in the paint
Prepare the way, the prophet cries, with locusts and with blood.
While the politicians drag the lake in search of something good.
All hail the antipasto king who ruled the final reckoning,
as a rain of shekels hammered down upon the roofs of tin.
The cherubim are restless; they know the time has come
Tweedledee has lost the plot and can’t find Tweedledum
On the starboard port of morning, we see a dreadful sight
It’s the past that just won’t die, and no one can make right
He’s got the law and order scales to weigh the holy cross,
of those elemental forces that must win at any cost.
Jesus set the cross bars right with Rosicrucian prayer,
to help us as we go along, like we were never there
They’re playing chopsticks on the rib cage
of some forgotten sidewalk saint,
and the dark hosannas hit the mark.
Like a point guard in the paint
There’s nothing like the fear of time
to prove what is... is still what ain’t.
Like a point guard in the paint.
Like a point guard in the paint.
