| They came marching down the street in robes | 
| In the spirit of the Spanish inquisition | 
| Guitars and trombones | 
| Mechanical monkeys make good musicians | 
| Street urchins, the smugglers and dingos | 
| Dead languages and living man’s lingos | 
| Put the relics of a saint in a glass box | 
| And march him around the block | 
| Hangin' on the words of a mad man | 
| Islands in the abyss | 
| No use for the poet | 
| When the hopeless seek no bliss | 
| Mason jars of petroleum | 
| You know those kids don’t play | 
| And should you ever get a hold of them | 
| I’ll tell you exactly what they’ll say: | 
| «Time we told you son about the family curse» | 
| And when they open up the diary to gain an explanation | 
| They find only terminal verse | 
| Hangin' on the words of a mad man | 
| Islands in the abyss | 
| No use for the poet | 
| When the hopeless seek no bliss | 
| X-ray visions, eye in the sky | 
| And the naked being led by the blind | 
| So bottoms up now, socrates | 
| Hemloc straight up goes down easy | 
| Hangin' on the words of a mad man | 
| Islands in the abyss | 
| No use for the poet | 
| When the hopeless seek no bliss | 
| X-ray visions, eye in the sky | 
| The naked being led by the blind | 
| So bottoms up now, socrates | 
| Hemlock tastes like ripple wine | 
| X-ray visions, eye in the sky | 
| The naked being led by the blind | 
| So bottoms up now, socrates | 
| Hemloc straight up goes down easy |