Cuase that's all it takes.. snapping your fingers..

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First Born

We are the last of our Tribe, of our name
Hungry Wolves, westward bound, we've shed our locks of love and rage
Laying bone naked in the sun soaked liberty of a no man
Desperate minimum wage

I kill without question it's easier that way.
I kill without question it's easier that way.

Clothed in form.
Nervously gnawing
On my shame and suffering
Trained to kill
Everything.

What have I done?
I slit my father's throat
With the knife that he gave to me, and the promise of his throne.
What have I done?
I tried to be a man
I covered my skin with pain and blood
And killed upon command
What have I done?
My mind is my tomb.
I've given my throne to my next of kin as I wait here in my room.

I wanna evolve.
I want to evolve.
I wanna Evolve.
I wanna evolve.
I wanna evolve, I wanna evolve. I wanna evolve. I wanna evolve.

I'll suffer in secret it's easier that way.
it's easier that way.

Tombstone Blues

The sweet pretty things are in bed now of course
The city fathers they're trying to endorse
The reincarnation of Paul Revere's horse
But the town has no need to be nervous

The ghost of Belle Starr she hands down her wits
To Jezebel the nun she violently knits
A bald wig for Jack the Ripper who sits
At the head of the chamber of commerce

Mama's in the fact'ry
She ain't got no shoes
Daddy's in the alley
He's lookin' for FOOD
I'm in the KITCHEN
With the tombstone blues

The hysterical bride in the penny arcade
Screaming she moans, "I've just been made"
Then sends out for the doctor who pulls down the shade
Says, "My advice is to not let the boys in"

Now the medicine man comes and he shuffles inside
He walks with a swagger and he says to the bride
"Stop all this weeping, swallow your pride
You will not die, it's not poison"

Mama's in the fact'ry
She ain't got no shoes
Daddy's in the alley
He's lookin' for FOOD
I'm in the KITCHEN
With the tombstone blues

Well, John the Baptist after torturing a thief
Looks up at his hero the Commander-in-Chief
Saying, "Tell me great hero, but please make it brief
Is there a hole for me to get sick in?"

The Commander-in-Chief answers him while chasing a fly
Saying, "Death to all those who would whimper and cry"
And dropping a bar bell he points to the sky
Saying, "The sun's not yellow it's chicken"

Mama's in the fact'ry
She ain't got no shoes
Daddy's in the alley
He's lookin' for FOOD
I'm in the KITCHEN
With the tombstone blues

The king of the Philistines his soldiers to save
Put jawbones on their tombstones and flatters their graves
Puts the pied pipers in prison and fattens the slaves
Then sends them out to the jungle

Gypsy Davey with a blowtorch he burns out their camps
With his faithful slave Pedro behind him he tramps
With a fantastic collection of stamps
To win friends and influence his uncle

Mama's in the fact'ry
She ain't got no shoes
Daddy's in the alley
He's lookin' for FOOD
I'm in TROUBLE
With the tombstone blues

The geometry of innocence flesh on the bone
Causes Galileo's math book to get thrown
At Delilah who's sitting worthlessly alone
But the tears on her cheeks are from laughter

Now I wish I could give Brother Bill his great thrill
I would set him in chains at the top of the hill
Then send out for some pillars and Cecil B. DeMille
He could die happily ever after

Mama's in the fact'ry
She ain't got no shoes
Daddy's in the alley
He's lookin' for FOOD
I'm in the KITCHEN
With the tombstone blues

Where Ma Raney and Beethoven once unwrapped their bed roll
Tuba players now rehearse around the flagpole
And the National Bank at a profit sells road maps for the soul
To the old folks home and the college

Now I wish I could write you a melody so plain
That could hold you dear lady from going insane
That could ease you and cool you and cease the pain
Of your useless and pointless knowledge

Mama's in the fact'ry
She ain't got no shoes
Daddy's in the alley
He's lookin' for FOOD
I'm in the KITCHEN
With the tombstone blues

The Federation of American Natives

Because we do not believe that what our Country is hurtling towards is
the True America. We can not accept that which is fed to us. We do not
believe that there should be a world community, a world government. We
will never be a people as one because our differences are what make us
human. Because you believe that everyone should stand on their own two
feet. No one should be given hand outs. People need to earn their
place. They need to be aware of consequence. Because you believe all
this to be true, You are a True American.

Shaman of Snakes

And in this there is serious danger. For not only has it always been the way of multitudes to interpret their own symbols literally, but such literally read symbolic forms have always been - and still are, in fact - the supports of their civilizations, the supports of their moral orders, their cohesion, vitality, and creative powers. With the loss of them there follows uncertainty , and with uncertainty, disequilibrium, since life, as both Nietzsche and Isben knew, requires life-supporting illusions; and where these have been dispelled, there is nothing secure to hold on to, no moral law, nothing firm. We have seen what has happened, for example, to primitive communities unsettled by the white man's civilization. With their old taboos discredited, they immedietly go to pieces, disintegrate, and become resorts of vice and disease.

One cannot help remarking , however that since about the year 1914 there has been evident in our progressive world an increasing disregard and even disdain for those ritual forms that once brought forth, and up to now have sustained, this infinitely rich and fruitfully developing civilization. Americans abroad, from the period of Mark Twain onward, have been notorious exemplars of the ideal, representing as conspicuously as possible the innocent belief that Europeans and Asians, living in older, stuffier environments, should be refreshed and wakened to their own natural innocencies by the unadulterated and boorishness of a product of God's Country, our sweet American soil, and our Bill of Rights.

It is this: that in a small community like Athens the relationship of the creative artist to the local social leaders would be forthright and direct, they would have known each other since boyhood; whereas in such a community as, say, our modern New York, London, or Paris, the artist who would be known has to go to cocktail parties to win commissions. and those who win them are the ones who are not in their studios but at parties, meeting the right people and appearing in the right places. They have not been quite enough engaged in the agony of solitary creative work to press beyond their first acquisitions of marketable styles and techniques. And the next consequence is "instant art," where some clever individual with as little formal agony as possible simply renders something unforeseen - which is then criticized and either advertised or suppressed by either friendly or unfriendly newspaper folk, who have also had a lot of socializing to attend to and, with insufficient time for extra-curricular study or experience, find themselves baffled before anything really complex or significantly new.

-Joseph Cambell

WE LIVE IN A TIME OF NO FAITH. PEOPLE BELIEVE IN NOTHING. IT USED TO BE THAT EACH HAD THEIR OWN VERSION OF GOD BUT NO MORE. WITHOUT GOD, WITHOUT OUR GURUS, PEOPLE PLACE LOOK TO OTHER THINGS TO FILL THAT VOID THAT THE ABCENSE OF FAITH HAS LEFT, LIKE PUTTING FOUL WATER ON AN OPEN WOUND. GANG GREEN OCCURS, AMPUTATION BECOMES NESCESSARY, BUT ALL THE WHILE PEOPLE STAND IN THE BACK AND SING SAVE THE WHALES.

To See What Condition My Condition Was In