The hands of Mark David Chapman were set aside in seperate barrells
And the backbreakers carried them into the bomb shelter
The sky was raining black acid from a blue moon
Blackbirds picking at the festered wound of a ghost town

The children were dressed up as chinese dragons
And moved through a black hole made of pick up sticks
The domes of their heads were covered in sweat
Eyes wide as headlights in the haze

There was an old man who sat leaning against the barrells
Playing with an old kaleidoscope
Newspapers littered the floor with all the same story
Peace was coming