Lazy flies, all hovering above
The magistrate, he puts on his gloves
And he looks to the clouds, all pink and disheveled
There must be some blueprint, some creed of the Devil
Inscribed in our minds
A hideous game vanishes in thin air
The vanity of slaves, who wants to be there
To sweep the debris, to harness dead horses
Ride in the sun, a life of confessions
Written in the dust
Out in the mangroves, the mynah birds cry
In the shadows of sulfur, the trawlers drift by
They're chewing dried meat in a house of disrepute
The dust of opiates and syphilis patients
On brochure vacations
Fear has a glare that traps you like searchlights
Puritans stare, their souls are fluorescent
The skin of a robot vibrates with pleasure
Matrons and gigolos carouse in the parlor
Their hand-grenade eyes, invalid and blind
A hideous game vanishes in thin air
The vanity of slaves, who wants to be there
To sweep the debris, to harness dead horses
Ride in the sun, a life of confessions
Written in the dust
La la la la, la la la la
La la la la, la la la la
La la la la, la la la la
La la la la, la la la, la la la la
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Beck » Lazy Flies