Shall we use needles or knives to realign your spine?

the tissue degenerates so rapidly

perhaps it proves it is the time to cover your face

and smile at me to see if I am out of sight,

denying ventricle flow revel in your plight tonight,

you're such a wonderful person to know

and my name will rest in utter disdain

my resentment receives its wings for flight

you deceitfully stroll on just the same into your holy light


With music destroyed, we'll only create noise

sweet dissonance is all that you'll have left

we'll dance across its grave

the art of singing empty praise with knives of hope and peace stab art to death


I've watched it on its drugs

and I've seen the doctors shrug cerebellums withered up,

the heart is black


No scalpel, pill or stitch, no religious sales pitch

will ever bring the art that's dying back

and so we are the heirs, of this glowing lack of care our hearts in one discord

we all cry out for blood and spit we clap, the amps are feeding back

my heart is filled with the one to whom I shout


And glowing you speak in the friendliest tongue in sentiments of gold

and oh the sweetest songs are sung and the sweetest lies are told

so spread this virus and seek yourself you pursue it quite relentlessly when Sunday comes

you'll raise hands to sing what a glorious sight to see


Yet I see true art, I see her, and I see you

and Father you inspire me to sing to you

you inspire me to sing to you


Burn all the flags and the money, sacrifice and laugh


The light in your eyes reflects and I see myself

and all I want to be for you I'll give everything,

just to linger on your lips and feel your fingertips, you are an angel


Art is not the world, art is in our heart


And so I am the prince of sounds that make ears ring

my princess kiss me with your sweet lips and lo,

my heart will sing if art is in yourself,

or in a class at school if art is ego and selfishness,

and at the mercy of primitive tools we sing sweet good-byes in screams and screeches

and bury these knives in your heart

no paintings or poems to let you live on

we've seen the last of art as servants and lovers

we wash your feet and cry out into the dark the noise, the beauty,

the love you bring me stabs these knives right into art art is not the world,

art is in our hearts


Stab art to death...