The compass of decision falls always on one side
But many went before us, and still the cries are clear
There is no beauty here, just the stench of wine and beer

We save no souls
We break no promises

We can do nothing more than move on headlong through the gloom
The thorn between our lips is the missionaries tune
Men with open arms turn their faces half away
Observe as we approach that we have not come to save
We stand as thick as vines though the fruit is torn away
There is no beauty here, friends, just death and dark decay