Hark, now, the beast is marching on to Israel
and there's a star in the east burning my eyes,
wormwood falling, falling for this rotten mercy
like a downward spiral playing a mourning orchestra for something without ears.
And Jesus Christ is on his knees
and the beast laughs because no one believes in anything anymore but their own apathy.
I drank to escape it's morbid disarray,
to find the best tasting wine,
but half of it was too diluted, losing its reassuring answer,
and the other half would make me so drunk on answers I'd be lost in ignorant bliss.
But I don't want it... No... I just want to listen to my phantom orchestra.