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Eroding cannons aimed directly at the sun
Sat, poised and silent for their diagnostics
Grey, decommissioned and au fait with la-de-da
They say they prayed for a drought and a mind full of bullets
A voice like a fist screaming, ‘Hallelujah'

Anything could happen though you know it won't

South of reproach I'm known as Casanovacaine
The man, the myth, the sage, the legend, the patron saint of the undeserving
A modest hand with much to be modest about
My word I'm a cyst for a heart. I'm a lung in a bucket
A thief in the night screaming, ‘Hallelujah'

Anything could happen though you know it won't

So, down tools

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