March of the Zug

There's a slow moving train
 Rolling through the rain,
 And a man with a hammer
 Who is writhing around.
 A certain school of thieves
 Are watching from the trees.
 They're counting their splinters
 Before they leap to the ground.
 The sun's dying rays
 Ripping through the haze
 Have betrayed the Technicolor
 Madness in their eyes...
 The Easy Street Sons of Kings
 Are fucking with everything,
 Now Spoonboy the Madpisser
 Has escaped into the night.
 The Sultans of the Swine
 Are turning fish into wine.
 They whisper their mantras
 To the gods of the Right.
 The moon's lunar phase
 Lends venom to the craze
 That detonates like tidal waves
 Tearing through their minds...
 The bitches of the drain
 Are fiending for the rain
 That just cripples up their minds
 With its spastic display.
 An accessory to their trade
 Poor Old Phineas Gage
 Pleads to keep his faculties,
 But is destined to fail.
 The science of the sane
 Has crumbled from the strain
 Of trying to find a back door
 From this landscape of Hell.