The Thirty-third of August

Well, today there's no salvation,
 The band's packed up and gone.
 Left me standin' with my penny in my hand.
 There's a big crowd at the station,
 Where a blind man sings his songs.
 He can see what I can't understand.
 It's the thirty-third of August,
 And I am finally touchin' down.
 Eight days from Sunday, Lord.
 Saturday bound.
 Eight days from Sunday, Lord.
 And I'm Saturday bound.
 Once I stumbled through the darkness,
 Tumbled to my knees,
 A thousand voices screamin' through my brain.
 Woke up in a squad car, busted down for vagrancy.
 And outside my cell it sure as hell,
 It looks like rain.
 It's the thirty-third of August,
 And I am finally touchin' down.
 Eight days of Sunday,
 Saturday bound.
 [Vocal stylings.]
 Now I've put my angry feelings,
 Under lock and chain.
 Hide my violent nature with a smile.
 Though the demons dance and sing their songs,
 Within my fevered brain,
 Not all my God-like thoughts, Lord, are defiled.
 And it's the thirty-third of August,
 I am finally touching down.
 Eight days from Sunday,
 Saturday bound.
 Eight days from Sunday, Lord.
 And I'm Saturday bound.