MOG

Out in the mangroves, the mynah birds cry
There must be some blueprints
The skin of a robot vibrates with pleasure
To sweep the debris, to harness dead-horses
To ride in the sun, a life of confessions
Fear has a glare that traps you like searchlights
La la la
They're chewing dried meat
The vanity of slaves, who wants to be there?

La la la
To ride in the sun, a life of confessions
In the shadows of sulfur, the trawlers drift by
Written in the dust
Some creed of the Devil inscribed in our minds
And he looks to the clouds, all pink and disheveled
A house of disrepute, the dust of opiates
A hideous game vanishes in thin air
A hideous game vanishes in thin air
La la la

Matrons and gigolos carouse in the parlor
Written in the dust
Their hand-grenade eyes, invalid and blind

To sweep the debris, to harness dead horses
The vanity of slaves, who wants to be there?
And syphilis patients on brochure vacations
The puritans stare their souls are fluorescent