Clap on, clap off
Clapton on crack rocks
Gunning the guitar with three hands
That's one more than Guy Fawkes
The gunpowder plan, the Catholic plot
Let's restore England to a golden epoch
That was not quite as hot as we originally thought
After the hornet's nest is ripped abreast
Our morals were put to the test, times are worst, times are best
A Dickens fest of religious zeal and political zest
When I heard that trumpet sound in Budapest
And Death charged in with all the rest
Famine, Plague, and riding last - Conquest
Riders on the storm of the abnormal
Bridging the line of the real and the insanely informal
Those dormant specters of man's internal blankness
With frankness, I say most of what makes a human
is a vacuum of rude phrases and empty spaces
Beyond the shadow shards of souls nonexistent
We're all just living to get fed
Through the slit of the libertine guillotine
No lead, no bread, no heads
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