| Oh the air is here is getting thick
|
| From all the dirty ciga-rhetoric
|
| Oh I can feel my inside turning black
|
| And if words were dollars I’d want mine back
|
| Ooooh, every body gather round
|
| They better head for higher ground
|
| Ooooh, ever body gather round
|
| We’re gonna burn this building down
|
| You know for every Tombstone Road they pave
|
| They’re gonna throw a tickertape parade
|
| And every thousand years that trickle by
|
| They’ll find another prophet to crucify
|
| Ooooh, every body gather round
|
| They better head for higher ground
|
| Ooooh, ever body gather round
|
| We’re gonna burn this village down
|
| And when they’re warm and cozy in their beds
|
| We’re gonna paint ourselves in black and red
|
| We’re gonna batter down the gilded doors
|
| And put the writing on the walls
|
| And the ceilings, and the floors
|
| Anywhere we fancy the truth belongs
|
| Ooooh, every body gather round
|
| They better head for higher ground
|
| Ooooh, ever body gather round
|
| We’re gonna burn this city down |