White sheets hanging in the wind.
clean fresh waiting to begin,
a new start for all those who sinned,
last bits of hope bottled and tinned.

The noose is around our neck
and our feet are on the deck,
that dope how it does beck
and brings us here to our death,  
one by one we drop
clean sheets in slop
the crowd waits for the pop
as progress stops.

we come down to the height of the masses,
numb again to the time that passes,
hope escapes through its glasses
and our sheets meet the grasses.

Dead men hanging in the wind.