The world is an overflowing gutter It bubbles with the brine of shit and blood And those who keep their eyes upon the heavens Are the ones that end up faces down in the mud
It's easy to speak of grand ambitions Its east to pretend your innocent But lest you get distracted by the suffering of your sister Being practical and trying to pay the rent
Heaven has been promised to the righteous Hell's an overpopulated pit Purgatory’s given to the dreamers But the world belongs to those who plow the shit
There's a special place in hell for fancy talkers There’s a special place in heaven for the whores There's a throne reserved for those with good ideas Stolen by the demagogues who wanted more
The flowers and the laces in the market Are all purchased by the peddlers of the flesh But those who bring relief and carnal pleasure Sometimes serve the needs of mankind for the best
Cast off the limitations of the righteous There are good deeds only devils can commit Let us dance between the teardrops and the angels For the world belongs to those who plow the shit
At last the supreme maker decreed that this creature To whom he could give nothing holy his own Should have a share In the particular endowment of every other creature Taking man therefore this Creature of indeterminate image He set him in the middle of the world And thus spoke to him
We have given you all Adam No visage proper to yourself No endowment properly your own In order that Whatever price, whatever form, whatever gifts you may with Premeditation select These same may you have and possess Through your own judgement and decision We have made you a creature neither of heaven Nor of Earth! Neither mortal Nor immortal! And order that you may As the free and proud shaper of your own being Fashion yourself in the form you may propose It will be in your power To descend to the lower brutish forms of life You will be able through your own judgement and decision To rise again to the superior orders Of life is divine
The dead become the emperors of memory The saints have all been eaten by the worms The living will write a twisted future And the sinners all have practical concerns
The sentinels with rifles on the border Of the pretenses of charity are swept Oh but let's not talk of slipping into nightmares For the days are run by those who haven't slept
So throw away the vestments of the righteous Make sure the body almost lovely fits The souls are taken flight now from the bullhouse And the world belongs to those who plow the shitTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.