|
Suckin' alabaster in a ventilator shaft |
|
Chewin' on surrender because it's cheap and it lasts |
|
This ain't hell, it's a holding tank |
|
Where memory and the future draw a big, fat blank |
|
I know this tunnel leads somewhere |
|
But it takes mystery and a torch |
|
And a reason to care |
|
I know this tunnel leads outside |
|
Down to the river where the elephants die |
|
Comin' up |
|
Up, Up, Up, Up |
|
Comin' Up for Air |
|
There is no better story than a man in a hole |
|
This is where he laid still |
|
This is how he rolled |
|
This is how he fed, on the marrow of his bones |
|
This is where he shuffled |
|
Playin' doomsday alone |
|
A suicide miner |
|
With a depth charge timer |
|
Rathole lover |
|
Diggin' deep for a cover |
|
You suffocate first |
|
Then you learn how to breathe |
|
The sweet of the sewer |
|
Shows you the way to leave |
|
Make room for the cleanup crew |
|
They're the last to the scene |
|
And the first to be fooled |
|
The townsfolk line thick |
|
Along the riverside |
|
Lookin' for a place |
|
To watch the elephants die |
