Like a Mississippi Windchime in the breeze
Danglin’ down from the sycamore tree.
Like a vessel of wrath shattered on the ground,
Old Judge Lynch dropped the hammer down.

It’s dust to dust, to Angel Lust,
For St. Angeline. And you’re mine.

Two Easters left in my Christmas plow.
I wouldn’t take a dollar for my journey now.
They put the “laughter” in slaughter, the “lie” in believe
‘Cause my carbon footprint sinks six feet deep.

It’s dust to dust, to Angel Lust,
For St. Angeline. And you’re mine.
The LORD may condemn me but my baby forgives.
She’ll meet me inside the final tent I pitch.
White water lillies in my funeral spray,
Showered on my baby like a fine bouquet.

It’s dust to dust, to Angel Lust,
For St. Angeline. And you’re mine.

So cast your useless sabres aside.
Make the Devil eat his hat and set your head on fire.
It all shakes out the same way in the end.
The meat slides out in the shape of the can.

It’s dust to dust, to Angel Lust,
For St. Angeline. And you’re mine.