Cold brains, unmoved, untouched, unglued
Alone at last
And no thoughts, no mind, to rot behind
A trail of disasters
A final curse
Abandoned hearse
We ride, disowned
Corroded to the bone
The fields of green are bent, obscene
I lay upon the gravel
And a worm of hope, a hangman's rope
Pulls me one way or the other
A final curse
Abandoned hearse
We write these songs
Corroded to the bone
A bird of song is heard no longer
In the evacuated Heavens
The drain is drawn and drained and gone
And on and on, it doesn't matter
A final curse
Abandoned hearse
We ride, disowned
Corroded to the bone
A bird of song is heard no longer
In the evacuated Heavens
The drain is drawn and drained and gone
And on and on, it doesn't matter
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Beck » Cold Brains