Several million years have past,
since the cosmos dumped it's trash.
But the book said
that it didn't happen that way.
And as this minstrel looks around
at this "drunk on ancient dogma" town
wanting Heaven, all they do is pray.
Celtic faces black with coal,
patiently await the dole.
Smoke and cough and cough and smoke, to Wally World they do fly.
For there's a caustic cross upon their hill,
protected by a local still.
Or is it the other way around in the wettest county, that is dry.
Who is this vagabond I see,
he walks the streets in search of thee?
With the stench of cheap addiction in the air.
While rats guard a yellow stream,
Arthur's long forgotten dream.
He mumbles verses, but no one sees him there.
And down at Ruby's so many more
just can't seem to find the door.
They use to know the game, but have forgotten how to play.
Wild Bill you old crazy sot,
"The Seven" have, but you have not.
Maybe you can show us, show us all the way.
Dr. Stangename counts his jack,
prescribing hits of "hillbilly smack".
Let's pull a tooth and buy another day of cheap grace.
Watch high above the S.S.D.I.,
a once frozen war machine will fly.
While Arthur's dream crumbles into space.
I climbed The Pinnacle to find,
the fallen star had left behind
a bowl of cryptic confusion, guilty illusions in it's wake.
I told a lady with a PHD,
"Now woman in Afghanistan are free".
But she just sneered and said, "for heaven's sake!"
Listen you can hear the swords,
of the ancient feudal lords.
Clans of clans, left over ways of thinking.
Children, bearing children, beg.
While "The Seven" sit upon the keg.
Deeming them not wise enough for drinking.
It wasn't always this way.
Arthur almost had his hay day.
That's when the devil's broken promise beget a faithless town.
And in the years when King Volstead reigned,
some rode on the gravy train.
The ***** were in their court, and they sold his Crown.
I hope someday this rhyme is moot,
and we all get to share the loot.
And they let the ghost of "Ragtime Harney" play.
For it clearly isn't working here,
just like a party with no beer.
There's no reason for anyone to stay.
Up the road it's "a hundred wet",
and I'll see you there I bet.
You'll give them the prize, that you could have won.
And while you smoke and spit and chew,
power-ball and bingo too.
The lesser of the evils, like self righteous boll weevils,
fearing truth upheavals just like this one.
This is a hell of a way to get to Heaven,
livin' your life at the mercy of "The Seven".
Dying to get out. Dying, you stay in.
While "The Seven" get rich, by keeping you poor.
The keepers of the keys to the barrel house door.
And don't tell me that's no sin.
This is a hell of a way to get to Heaven,
a hell of a way to get in.