Hey white boy, Dracula is thirsting for you.
You try to be slick, but you slip into his icicle fangs.
You'd get away with murder 'cause the juror is all hung and dried,
strung out, hands tied.
Don't fly too high, amigo.
Your eyes are looking like dried fruit,
that suit you're wearing costs more than every single
high-class whore on the streets of Babylon.
Don't you babble on about your free train ticket to heaven's mouth.
We've heard it all before, hipster Columbus,
so let me show you to the door.
We know the rate of moral decay,
we see it every day.
We know where the children play,
and where the rapists lie in wait.
I won't wait.
Hey Crazy Horse, your ghost is looking for you.
It's searching through the ashes and guilt and the library stacks.
The facts are all there, but the names have been changed
and the fingerprints all washed away.
Those chains are getting tighter
'round the neck of Mother Justice, lying gagged in the trunk of the car.
You know who you are.
You drive as far away as you can
before the gas in the tank turns to snakes.
You awake in a state in the Painted Desert, cold and raw.
And something's watching you from afar.
Don't waste our time with this tripe.
Our audience needs to be shown how to find
the appropriate places to laugh,
and the proper way to dry their eyes,
dry their eyes.
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