Text: Bride. Dust Through A Fan.

High Heel Boys Dancing In The Noise
Bright Lights Blind It Is Play Time
Silver Screen Smut In The Tomb Of Mr. Tut
Standing Tall Over Head These Are The Living Dead
Stir The Persian Smack, See Young Faces Crack
Sold Their Souls For Sex And Greed In The Bathroom In The Back
You Never Know What You Might See Up In The Apple Tree
Your Time Is Short How Disappointed God Must Be

They Are Lovers Of Their Ownselves
Unthankful And Proud Blasphemers, Disobedient, Boaster, Unholy, And Loud
A Fine Snow From Bogota Has Evrybody Lying Down
I See THem Crawl Like A Snake Their Noses To The Ground

[chorus]
They'll Take You For All They Can
Your Just Putty In Their Hands
Your Slippin And Slidin In Quicksand
Your Like The Dust Blown Through A Fan

I've Seen The Poor, Seen The Needy
Pitied The Rich Despised The Greedy
I've Seen The Dirty The Unclean
I've Seen The Worst Things Ever Been
I've Seen The Lost, Seen The Saved
Children Cry At Morrison's Grave
I've Seen The Bruised In The Night
Grown Men Cry In Broad Daylight