Gonna tell you a story about some rat-bat astard who couldn't get it through the mail. Spent his days pining away, his foot caught in the milking pail. His hair was dirty and his beard was long and he had a very powerful smell. Just-a-waitin' around, lyin' on the ground for God to ring that dinner bell.

But what is God gonna say to you that
you ain't heard already?
And what is God gonna give to you
that you ain't already got plenty?

Wishing well send you straight to hell. Who you gonna
run to? Who you gonna tell? You ain't been kind, you
ain't been discreet, with that look in your eyes and
your pants around your
feet

Runnin' around that underground, looking for your soul
in the lost and found of religion books on the dime-
store shelves but not one of them is gonna delve into the
heart of the matter. Like why you're running circles
mad as a hatter, while your
soles are wearing thinner while your body's getting fatter

Writin' letters from your jail cell from above the
taiga where it's cold as hell. The snowy owl comes
billowing by and the air is crisp ant the sky is high
Lean back your head
This will never be read

Chained to a root in a mobile suit is there ever an end to your days? So you suck it all in through an indigo wind and the stars turn on in a blaze. A panel of planes sweeps you into the sky and out into space you will sail. And hear some story about some Rat-Bat Astard who couldn't get it going through the mail.

written by Christopher Monti & Gabriel Luddy
© 2002 Christopher Monti/BMI