| Tempest blows up from a squall
|
| Past the Cape of Bad Conscience into the Gulf of the Cauldron
|
| Roars over the coastline to batter and flatten
|
| Exposing the roots like in the dyed hair of slattern
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| The scrapper and mauler in a rope ring this small
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| Outside the wind is punchin', there’s no one to hear it No one hears the bell ring except the one who comes to fear it And they continue to brawl
|
| He’s buyin' his way into heaven I suppose
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| He weeps at the blows
|
| But down in a location that we cannot disclose
|
| He turns the dial slowly
|
| Through the Stations of the Cross
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| Crowd done up dandy in diamonds and finery
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| Bayin' and howlin', all blood-lusty callin'
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| Fists like pistons, faces like meat spoilin'
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| Haul, boys, haul, bully-boys, haul
|
| Later in the evenin', Molly and her gunman
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| Go down the stairs to the dive like a dungeon
|
| Meanwhile in the backroom, there’s a girl like a sponge
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| Sayin', «Bring him along as a constable’s truncheon»
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| The gunman wants Molly to kingdom come
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| Then blows them all to the hereafter
|
| Who’s scuttling away now and hidden from our view?
|
| Who tightened the tourniquet, turning her blue?
|
| They’re hurlin' themselves into heaven I suppose
|
| Before the gates are closed
|
| But down in a location that we cannot disclose
|
| They turn the dial slowly
|
| Through the Stations of the Cross
|
| The gale of hale laughter scales up the ivory
|
| Black keys of her fine whine descend into the minor
|
| Die away breathless diminishin' behind her
|
| Haul, boys, haul, bully-boys, haul
|
| The water came up to the eaves
|
| You’d think someone had opened a valve
|
| It’s too soon to stay now and too late to leave
|
| So spare your remorse all the way up to Calvary
|
| They’re hurlin' themselves into heaven I suppose
|
| Before the gates are closed
|
| But down in a location that we cannot disclose
|
| They turn the dial slowly
|
| Through the Stations of the Cross
|
| Through the Stations of the Cross
|
| Through the Stations of the Cross |