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Doomsday, the end of the century |
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In accord with prophecy |
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Are all your fears and fires and family |
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Written within the Book of Butchery? |
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My appetite is endless |
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The people defenseless |
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This land is big, this land is bigger |
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But never as big as the mouth of a singer-oh. |
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Every morning I listen to confessional |
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Couldn't give a shit 'bout the bulk of it |
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Still I keep it professional |
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Then, as penance, I tell 'em to proselytize |
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Say: the sun is red, say that I am red |
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Say: all the bases belong to us |
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And of doomsday, the end of the century |
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In accord with prophecy |
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Put all your fears, fires, family |
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Into the mouth of Final Fantasy |
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All the bishops will kneel at their altars and sing |
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And remove their coils, their rings, their jewels |
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Lay them all down in sacrifice |
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What of things? What thing? What is this thing? |
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I've a temper as shiny as any bling! |
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And all this attention will gain you no favour in paradise |
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The crack |
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Where is the crack? |
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When did I |
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Crack? |
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Then I'll stand alone on a planet with |
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Nothing left to remember it |
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And I'll try, I'll try, I'll try to prevent it |
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I'll try, I'll try, but I'll never stop it, no |
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Muzzle me, muzzle muzzle me |
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Bind my will and break of me |
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And you try, you try, you try to prevent it |
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You'll try, you'll try, but you'll never stop it, no |
