The world is loaded, hope against hope. Ghost-sick for a god at the end of a rope." Hide your habits littered with rot. They're wasting away and then falling apart. There's jesus-freaks that line up the town. Ghost-sick for a god but it won't make a sound. The emptiness that fills up the floor, soaking up the streets of unholy blood. "The dead are bored of lying in the dirt. Lying on their tax-returns and turning into earth." "Empty grows in every bed." "Who's fucked and who's fucking? It's the old in and out again.