Look at all the people who will crucify disgrace
Look at all the people who will memorize your face
When you look at this world spinning, spinning there in place
You really have to wonder, what siren do we chase?

Picasso died on Saturday, was buried in the hills
Narcissus found his grave, but he just swallowed pills
He had got from Bacchus, to make him feel alive
But thatís okay cause Echo has all but lost her pride

Look at all these dragged on dreams, ill fitting cloths of yore
But at least with every pair of slacks, they give you a free tour
Of the plant down by the crossroads, of Mag Mell and Bombay
And you can see the cait sithe in the corner, dirty and all tamed

Plastic Pied Piper plays in the room downstairs
And all my rat-gut gangsters, just sit there and stare
But the children they are drifting, between Nirvana and the crash
You could go there to, If you can find their stash