Choose your ghost to fall into,
Two clouds make a whole storm,
And the thunder will rumble,
As the lightening strikes,
Through the ground comes the faith you lost,
Wrap that faith around your neck,
Hope that God comes to save,
While you get thrashed against the floor,
You're screaming out for more,
And you or I stretched towards the ceiling,
Where the clouds formed the snow,
Inside your weathered room.

Nothing's gone right,
Mr. Lake is a figment of your imagination,
Poison boy keeps bothering you,
And Wool Kid's got his hood in your mouth.

You wanted to be a son,
A lamb of something so far, far away,
Of something you never believed to exist,
Yet here you lay, begging for forgiveness,
Knees to the ground and head tilted,
You were tired of rhymes and ***** bones,
Set fire, set fire, set fire to yourself,
I'm getting sick of pretending it wasn't so bad,
Cause I don't know where I'd be if I hadn't been so strange.

Nothing's gone right,
Mr. Lake is a figment of your imagination,
Poison boy keeps bothering you,
And Wool Kid's got his hood in your mouth.

This one day I was awalkin' down the road,
to Chicago, winter o'seventy, worst in thirty years,
'saw this young fella in a army jacket, shiverin',
his feet was cold.

I walked up and said hello, you don't know me,
but I saw your feet was cold.

I got some dry socks and bread bags that'll
keep'm dry, you can have 'em if you will.

He said thank you, sir, real polite, but
cold feet is what I'm gettin' past,
gettin' over it wit m'mind. A guru taught me.

Ain't working is it?
I saw your feet was cold.

Nah, it ain't, now yah mention it, and I'm hungry.

So he bought me a burrito, and I told him about angels,
and how some say cold feet are symbolic,
one told me once,
many's the wish gone awanting
for lack of a reason to try.

I had cold feet, back then.
walkin' to Chicago, tryin' to. Again,
wit my mind. And bread bags, this time.

Angels, I believe in, they all are helpful as can be,
within parameters, y'understand, but evil angels,
ain't no such a thing.

Not no more any how. Jesus fixed it, came and saw,
damright, conquered war by loving and forgiving,

All while the Iron-legged montrosity from Italy,
was squishin' Jews and Christians in mud

that stuck like clay to the Iron-legged beast.
Ironic, ain't it?

You don't know? Whoa. These are the last days,
all the sealed up stuff that lion's den guy
got from the angels, messages from YodHeyVodHey,
Jesus's our father, from the prayer,

on earth as in heaven? There ain't no evil angels
in any heaven you ever imagined somebody imagined.

Loki, don't count. There's jokers in heaven.
Probably.

Mark Twain imagined a hellish heaven,
but saw no evil angels there.

They're mythic materially, literal wills o'the wisp.
The idea of evil hybrids,
that was then.
This now, now angels are all they ever were,
messages in the medium.

Mediums are something past medium now, hot or cold,
media-evil memes can manifest from a mob in the medium,
but they are bubbles,
right? Professional testers of the patience of the saints,
protesting the end of time,
so what?