Shazam
ALL IS WELL, GOODNIGHT HERO
Sic 'em, trick 'em, roll 'em into dough.
Turn that water into gold and starve
to death. Will you eat your children
when the cupboard is bare?
Swallow the venom, vain sweetheart,
swallow the come of the come-and-gone
men when the cupboard is bare.
So get after 'em, roll 'em into dough.
Make bread from their bones,
break the clock, pull up your socks
to keep your ankles dry in the flood.
Ripples in the water that runs deep,
tell me where the bottom lies.
Let's go to the bottom,
let's see the dead mothers
and their penniless children.
They're all penny dreadful,
singing songs of moonbeam terror,
never looking you in the eye.
So save up your pennies,
save up your pride, put
them in a jar and never
look inside until the pretty
girls cry down the street,
until they flood the streets
and get your ankles pretty-girl wet.
The creeps are stalking a crazy-time
waltz in time to the bodies falling.
"YOU ARE FREE TO DO AS WE TELL YOU,"
the television screams, and the monkeys
do as they tell them, they dance
the dance and push the buttons
when they are told. They get the cheese
when the killing machines swing the axe.
And Bhudda and Jesus are laughing
in uncomfortable horror as the children
are led into their cattle stalls,
while behind them the bodies
of all the murdered parents conceive
their children all over again.
But Bhudda and Jesus are too busy
counting the dead to bless the children.
So sic 'em, trick 'em, roll 'em into dough.
Roll 'em slow, string 'em out long,
string 'em out like smack addicts
looking for their next big fix
that stretches from the drain until desire.
And in between the dope fiends are laughing.
They're laughing at the reality
they've transcended, that they've
broken and raped and left crying alone.
And now that it's broken, where do we stand?
It's the ruins, it's the dead society.
It is dead like your hair
and your ripped-to-the-quick fingernails.
Just rip them out, just tear them out
while scratching out your eyes
in attempts to look away from the nine-to-five
ratrace poisoned Starbucks muffins.
We are puff-puff HOLY! tonight
with the madness madness madness
of too many terror-moons, too many
deathbeamsset up by supervillains
riding missile death down
upon our fair city of failth
with no superheros to save it.
Every car is a cop car,
every car is missile death
captained by that missing-in-action
superhero that amounted to exactly nothing.
It's you! You are the Holy! Holy! Holy!
Amen Hallelujah that will save this world,
that will save my world from me.
Sic 'em, trick 'em, roll 'em into dough.
Turn that water into gold and starve
to death. Will you eat your children
when the cupboard is bare?
Swallow the venom, vain sweetheart,
swallow the come of the come-and-gone
men when the cupboard is bare.
So get after 'em, roll 'em into dough.
Make bread from their bones,
break the clock, pull up your socks
to keep your ankles dry in the flood.
Ripples in the water that runs deep,
tell me where the bottom lies.
Let's go to the bottom,
let's see the dead mothers
and their penniless children.
They're all penny dreadful,
singing songs of moonbeam terror,
never looking you in the eye.
So save up your pennies,
save up your pride, put
them in a jar and never
look inside until the pretty
girls cry down the street,
until they flood the streets
and get your ankles pretty-girl wet.
The creeps are stalking a crazy-time
waltz in time to the bodies falling.
"YOU ARE FREE TO DO AS WE TELL YOU,"
the television screams, and the monkeys
do as they tell them, they dance
the dance and push the buttons
when they are told. They get the cheese
when the killing machines swing the axe.
And Bhudda and Jesus are laughing
in uncomfortable horror as the children
are led into their cattle stalls,
while behind them the bodies
of all the murdered parents conceive
their children all over again.
But Bhudda and Jesus are too busy
counting the dead to bless the children.
So sic 'em, trick 'em, roll 'em into dough.
Roll 'em slow, string 'em out long,
string 'em out like smack addicts
looking for their next big fix
that stretches from the drain until desire.
And in between the dope fiends are laughing.
They're laughing at the reality
they've transcended, that they've
broken and raped and left crying alone.
And now that it's broken, where do we stand?
It's the ruins, it's the dead society.
It is dead like your hair
and your ripped-to-the-quick fingernails.
Just rip them out, just tear them out
while scratching out your eyes
in attempts to look away from the nine-to-five
ratrace poisoned Starbucks muffins.
We are puff-puff HOLY! tonight
with the madness madness madness
of too many terror-moons, too many
deathbeamsset up by supervillains
riding missile death down
upon our fair city of failth
with no superheros to save it.
Every car is a cop car,
every car is missile death
captained by that missing-in-action
superhero that amounted to exactly nothing.
It's you! You are the Holy! Holy! Holy!
Amen Hallelujah that will save this world,
that will save my world from me.