where will we go when our bodies die?
floatin in the wind on the phosphorous skies
cuz they called him a savage
they called him a villain
a menace to society
an abuser of women
well lovers fly existence is nothin

thousands of people
without any faces
founded the city
of the civilized masses
the leaders ashamed of what they had created
bowed to the knees of their fathers to thank them
for resisting the temptation to hate them

and are you still willing to follow?
a world that is green
a world that is clean
of the art and the passion
that made it obscene
and are you still full of sorrow?
sorrow that hurt
sorrow that cured
any thing and everything of history's worth

The savage was hiding
the people were running
to see such a beast with charming and cunning
he wished to free them from bondage to dreamin
while poet's were dyin for the sake of convenience
but what would a savage know about human beings?

he was rushed to an office
and handed some tablets
as controllers gave him lectures bout playin with matches
i wont you to know friend
i did not kill your mother
she died tragically in a craze ridden stupor
nothin we can do bout life jackets made of rubber

and are you still willing to follow?
a world that is green
a world that is clean
of the art and the passion
that made it obscene
and are you still fighting babies in bottles?
drunk on their wine
in assembly lines
waiting on the prisms
through which they see nothin

they were shocked and bemused
when they found the savage
hangin from a lamppost
a martyr for madness
i want you to know friend
i did not kill your brother
he fell forty stories from the empire state building

you ought to have read what they wrote in the papers
conditioning disturbed by a savage's murder
but no one could possibly continue reading
with savages disturbing the city's peacekeeping
leaders are leadin
believers are bleedin
the only ones makin changes have the least of creedence

and are you still willing to follow?
a world that is green
a world that is clean
of the art and the passion
that made it obscene
and are you still chasing babies in bottles?
drunk on their wine
in assembly lines
waiting for the prisms
through which they see nothin
behind stained glass
where nobody goes
are the portals leading to history's doors
and the protal will only open for those
praying to ford for a little bit more
and a little bit more is why we are whores
and a little bit more is why we are whores

and are you still full of sorrow
sorrow that hurt
sorrow that cured
everything and anything in history's worth
and history's words are a little off curb
history's words are a little absurd