do not set music to these words
the hour is late and there is no song I'd like to hear
open wires and not the others, red the wine and black the color
the time of the iceworm almost past
I'm in sudden trouble
breathing under ovens
like grist for the mill
give them more and more rye
in some infinite tithe
grist for the mill
will I be physically disfigured?
will i come to no conclusions?
grind the wheat and grind the rye
when it happens nothing
people try to change and stay the same
people try to stay the same and change
when it happens nothing
when it happens nothing
surely this must be a dream
a web of sleep still clings to me and I am lost
the sun is setting on a deeply stupid prophecy
and sends the knock-knees running to the temples
I've been drinking mare's milk from a toppled over house
gone from strutting like a rooster, to sulking like a louse
with a morbid attitude, the mirror does appraise
what comprises can be made in the passing of an age
we've become such clever swine, in the fitting of our masks
the costumes that we cling to and the burdens never asked
to tear away the apron of the butcher that you wear
the grim determination gone, the fragile system bare
for this privilege I would give, all the water on the sun
cuz i've been burning tickets like this day would never come (last legs)
it's opening it's mouth on us
like grist for the mill
