[Verse 1] Overcast sky. The pollen count’s behaving. Where corn once waved — an office block’s engraving. All things must fade to dust, that’s nature’s law. Except for Johnny Depp and Charles Bronson’s drawl. [Verse 2] Children of the Corn turned bonded bricklayers now, Laying Stone, BRICS, and Woods with solemn vow. Guided by triffids and dandelion hooch, Fed on mulch of dead Algernons they’d pooch. [Chorus] Cry-Baby laughs through the thick and thin. Dust to dust, we ride and spin. Corn and triffids own the night. How, pale-faces — dance, ignite! [Verse 3] Tomorrow’s outlook? No clear sign in sight. Lottery priests preach victory for “our side.” In handball brackets truths are cracked and spun — So dance we must — the fire’s begun! [Verse 4] In the end, I’d like to thank the Universe, Chant OOOMMM, scratch my scalp, read fence-curse verse. No, I’m no Byron, no Pushkin, no Lennon. Aleut women don’t adore my canon. They feed on blubber, guts of seals and whales — [Verse 5] No one’s adding my scribbles to their faves, I lack all keys to the culture code maze. My best friend’s that bird up there on the wire. King Cry-Baby. How. Pale-face choir.
