Look at our electric guitars
And, if not for the good people weeping
All we'd hear is sounds of our horses dying
But I'm not 'bout to start crying about it
It must be fairly normal
To devolve into cycloptic brooding
As the genocidal massacres you rubbed over some perceived sedition
Insecurities of men messing everything up again
(Oh, {?} sparrow in the gales, only)
CHORUS:
I'll never follow no kind of master's voice
The mutinous tramp of cold voltage crucifixion is my conduit
I just watched my hero fail
Now I'm in a dark and violent funk
Every leader is a cellophane punk
If you hear me say "yeah!" (Yeah!)
"Yeah!" (Yeah!) "Yeah!" (Yeah!) "Yeah!" (Yeah!)
There must be a softer vision that you can kick to
In this aureate gloom, I assume
Both sides are embarrassingly backwards in their thinking, bearing
No one to side with, no, not one to defend
(So, the mute-minded sect {?})
People disappear on the wrong side of this revolution
When they resurface, there's a black hole in their skull
People disappear on the wrong side of this revolution
When they'll return, all their childhood memories are dead
CHORUS:
I'll never follow no kind of master's voice
The mutinous tramp of cold vulture crucifixion is my conduit
I just watched my hero fail
Now I'm in a dark and violent funk
Every leader is a cellophane punk
If you hear me say "yeah!" (Yeah!)
"Yeah!" (Yeah!) "Yeah!" (Yeah!) "Yeah!" (Yeah!)
CHORUS:
I'll never follow no kind of master's voice
The mutinous tramp of cold voltage crucifixion is my conduit
I just watched my hero fail
Now I'm in a dark and violent funk
Every leader is a cellophane punk
If you hear me say "yeah!" (Yeah!)
"Yeah!" (Yeah!) "Yeah!" (Yeah!) "Yeah!" (Yeah!)
Yeah!
I believe in witches
I believe in you
I believe in witches
I believe in you, you, you, you, you, you, you, you
I believe in witches
I believe in you
I believe in witches
I believe in you, you, you, you, you, you, you, you, you