A city is the stones The people aren't important Whoever said they were? That's a modern idea People breed and die They come and they go faithless.
The stones are true They don't die They won't betray our fathers The stones speak the language of our fathers Hopes and fears we don't understand like poetry.
Nobody understands All the words that we've cherished for so long fall on deaf ears Children hear our hopes and fears Hope and fear.
In awful solitude the stones speak only to themselves Whispering in the dark Strange talk.
The sun sets People flee In the surrounding hills they huddle against the empty darkness around their suburban campfires Above in the sky the stars come undone Below in the city there's nothing but strange talk that feels like all the faded hopes that never were.
Can't we stop along the way? We just passed by a place called Elvis Is Alive Museum and a shop where we can get souvenirs and a postcard or two.
Jack says Man it's awful hard to be the one that everyone was waiting for. It's lonely in the dark when media priests of the Big Lie own all of the words.
Did you ever wonder why your Elvis fans were so much nicer people than the people who laugh at them?
Turquoise fins in Pomona Turquoise fins in Winona Turquoise fins in Corona Turquoise fins in Oceana Turquoise fins in Alcona Turquoise fins in Alatoona Turquoise fins in West Molina Turquoise fins Altadena Turquoise fins downtown Medina Turquoise fins Issaquanah Turquoise fins West Issaquanah Albany.
In the ghost town inside of my heart all your downtown is parking lots At the drug store at 9th & Payne they stock the Bitter Pill They say Will we see you again next Tuesday? What more can we do for you Mr Johnson sir?
Pass the word around them Golden Pools I've been elected King of the Fools.
At the barber shop they never close They'll cut your hair They'll shine your suit You look fine mister You look sharp We can tell how well you play the part.
In the rain the streets are on fire.
At the city hall the mayor gives away the key He says Look around Make yourself at home Everything we do for you is our pleasure.
In the state of Montana in the Year of the Ford Nineteen Hundred and Fifty-Four People are leaving They're driving all night Women are crying They're frozen in light And we roll on the river.
Our river is black The river is deep Headlights and moonlight A space full of grief Secrets and heartache must carry the load The heart of the thing is the thing we don't know And we roll out the barrel.
Lo and behold the night is too long Anchored in heartache afraid of the dawn Nobody changes The truth is all gone Bosses say everybody must go And we roll on the ribbons The ribbons of our dreams.
My friend's a stooge for the media priests He does the weather map for Channel 3 He smiles alot when I take him home Stares at the rug if I leave him alone Lays around the house in misery He toes the line for the company.
He's living life like a Hollow Man Hiding out in a Hollow Land.
My friend's a stooge for the media priests In the morning with his hand on his heart He keeps the world safe from falling apart Pledge allegiance to the Land of Thrills No one there's born to pay their bills My friend's a stooge for the media priests.