Waiting for Black Metal Records to Come in the Mail
What has become of all of us, all ceilings, all skies
Is that, the stars can swim a thousand dark miles
Before they ever see the floor again
With their backs against the wall on these last days
But then, we knew that would happen anyway
You drop that pitch-black pall
Over us, one and all, again
To propel your national machines
Giving us all the disease, but not the vaccine
A thousand tiny lives
Disappear into the black stretch
And I guess I thought I’d feel something but I didn’t
But I didn’t, yes, that’s a myth
With their backs against the wall on these last days
But then, we knew that would happen anyway
You drop that pitch-black pall
Over us, one and all, again
To propel your national machines
Giving us all the disease, but not the vaccine
I would give anything for a cool glass of water
Without this poisonous oil