All hail the coming of the X's
The coming of the O's
I think I heard the preacher
Speaking in a language no one knows
Come on you fireside angels
Vox, angelica vox
Come on you fireside angels
Vox, angelica vox
Machine guns
Made of celery and grapes
Rooms full of cinema reels
Horses made of light and steel
Art is the motorcycle
(and maybe the parachute)
Paint your house
The color of an eggshell
And gag on the beauty
Of the trees
Come on you fireside angels
Vox, angelica vox
Come on you fireside angels
Vox, angelica vox