BLACK COUNTRY GOTHIC

They felt safe then so I've heard Under their Thick black blanket Of industry Now they kneel and pray At the steel alter a hopeless congregation At a godless mass The black-country monks Gargling hymns and eating the body Of some budget Christ With dirty children Off-white angels Kicking feral pigeons And picking up half smoked nub-ends taught to never look up And scour the ground Future is a funny word Future is a silver dream Gargling hymns and eating the body Of some bastard Christ kicking stones At the shapes of Yesterday's ghosts One day you'll find me by the water Kicking stones at Yesterday's ghosts