Из альбома: Daughters
A white man, in a white suit, an a white horse rides into town off that dusty
ol' trail
He rides into town, not just any town. I’m talking d-e-a-de-n-d
With integrity and his heart on his sleeve
He hopes they are going to buy what he believes
He offers every fool and every friend
That’s a population of one hundred and three
A cure to their unchristian like ways
With a simple process of «drawing out»
Through the hole in the top of the skull
Then a snip, a cut and a couple of knots tied off
He offers to make them as good as new
«Better than you’re used to»
Sadly. The locals didn’t take kindly to this well intentioned man
They don’t want a hand out from him
Instead, they take offence to a man coming into their town looking to tell
right from wrong
That’s when the situation goes from bad to worse
As they string him up at the town hall
It appears our smart-ass should have kept along that dusty, lonely trail
They tell him «The hands are the eyelids of the soul.»