"The world is loaded, hope against hope.
Ghost-sick for a god at the end of a rope."
Hide your habits littered with rot.
They're wasting away and then falling apart.
There's jesus-freaks that line up the town.
Ghost-sick for a god but it won't make a sound.
The emptiness that fills up the floor, soaking up the streets of unholy blood.
"The dead are bored of lying in the dirt.
Lying on their tax-returns and turning into earth."
"Empty grows in every bed."
"Who's fucked and who's fucking? It's the old in and out again."