Fallen angels took a ride
Lost in their compass
Feeling grievous
That they knew not the specks in the sky
So they tried to talk about the fuck at the fairground
Who claimed he was
Born somewhere around 1882
He said he'd pony up and ride to the ends of his eyes
And he'd pray for us.
At the guardhouse near the shore
Joe was defeated, a goat de-bleated
Silent like when you knew him before
And we knew he'd quit the ride
He was responding to the world's despondence
And gave in to the Great Divide
So we played it on hope, we slept and awoke
And we merged into the ways
Of the heft and the grunt
Of the filthy ol' mutts
And stopped trying to find our way
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