The Fifth Plague

Beasts of the field we stand

Somewhere between darkness and man

Part of the plan

Part of the proof

Of the fifth plague

Ah, to die in a grove

On a spring day

Tipped over by God

Part of the proof

Part of the plan

Of the fifth plague

Not the glorious death of the sacred bull

But slaughtered and pitched like rotten junk

Into the land of the dead

Where mummified kings and queens wait

In their own heaven

Beasts of the field we stand

Somewhere between darkness and man

Part of the plan

Proof of the power

Of the fifth plague

Like the dying bull in the ring

Struck by the picadores

The last sound he hears in this dusty world

The out of tune trumpets and the sound of applause

As the matador bows