Oh: listening to Sunday Shoals,
Weed up from the water,
Missionaries fiddle while they baptize the horizon
Chaos if they falter.
Oh, Donna was offended by the cartographic vessels
That mirrored the pain of her daughter
Oh, Holly was dead from the cartographic lead
that poisoned the veins of her daughter,
And the patriarch will send his children to the fens,
And the stinking swamplands will surrender.
Patience in her Sunday clothes,
We ate the witch's hat,
We ate the witch's pills,
And offerings and the offerings and the semblance of the offerings.
Paid for with a baseball bat, paid for with a baseball bat,
Paid for with a baseball bat,
Reaction: when they come. And when they come, and when they go.
Reaction when they come, they will violate their sun,
And tear apart their daughters and make witches of their sons,
You ain't nothing at all!
I'm never going to be a-waiting for that man.