Boy do I know
a place where gods can be human;
it’s somewhere between
where man learned how to fly
and where they wished to die.

Lord can I guide you
to that prison against the far east;
it’s somewhere to die
and somewhere to beg
for mercy and for lies.

Pull against your chains o’ iron
and hear the shackles’ chorus;
sing their song
and say their praise,
then leave for the ones before us.