The stars collected
Each world accounted for
Freed all the children

Seems there is nothing more

If I only had a rowboat I would row it up to heaven

And if heaven would not have me I would take the other option
I will seek out my own satisfaction


From the wine lying the bedroom
To the priest with his broken arrows
There's a method to the madness

They will feign an expression of sadness
A called cattle-nation of locusts
And the farmers are losing their focus

On the pitch of the avenue grasses
I will sing sing sing to the masses


Oh Heartland, up yours

The hollow voice of

Of fourteenth century
Too much $$#umption to be taken seriously
On the road like a Disney kid in cutoffs and a beater

With a feathered fringe, it doesn't suit a simonia greeter
Doesn't work doesn't fly doesn't handle


From the wine lying the bedroom
To the priest with his broken arrows
There's a method to the madness

They will feign an expression of sadness
A called cattle-nation of locusts
And the farmers are losing their focus

On the pitch of the avenue grasses
I will sing sing sing to the masses


Oh Heartland, up yours

(Oh violent lent violent lent violent lent)


I will not sing your praises
I will not sing your praises here

I will not sing your praises
I will not sing your praises here
I will not sing your praises

I will not sing your praises
I will not sing your praises
I will not sing your praises here