Junk monkeys with leather whips
Bearing a new crucifix
No more worries ‘bout impotence
When *** means to devour
Accidental elegance of fate
Minus some extra water weight
This new hunger has the taste
Of never laughing freely
And Jesus with his puncture wounds
And fingers stretched like on a loom
The tales among the tall weeds grew
The killer is the martyr
And all the iron butterflies
They sit around the fireside
Learning to evolve the night
Under a lava-moon
Stumbling down the lost highway
Groaning trees exalt your sway
With crimson chins, no time to pray
Racing with the morning star