And, though her wine's cheap, she'll get little sleep as her soul stirs like a tempest. Germany's grand, he raises his hand and salutes the youth of tomorrow. Heil Hitlers roar through the streets once more, to the dismay of everyone's sorrow. When the Seventh Bowl is all run dry the angels weep in a barren sky. The Church is a whore, the truths there adored are old myths remade for the taking.
Collection plates clink and the tones they create is the sound of big change raking.
When the Seventh Bowl is all run dry the angels weep in a barren sky. When the Seventh Bowl is all run dry the angels weep in a barren sky.