Album title: Nomads.Indians.Saints

1 2 3
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(Amy Ray)

From the bowery to the brimstone, I tried to find your heart.
With drugs of initiation, bottom of the barrel that drops.
I understand your causes, sympathize the motivation.
But all the details of this war are just self-infatuation.

1 2 3, Nothing's for free
4 5 6, Pick up the sticks and go home.

Manic blood runs thicky my friend, are you looking for a clean escape?
What's left when the locks have all been broken, young children of authority?
How long can you be agile, dancing between the altar and the mercy seat?
Here's a chance to make a choice, are you aware of the fire beneath your feet?

1 2 3, Nothing's for free
4 5 6, Pick up the sticks and go home.

the basement lies within us, the fear comes through the door
there's nothing left between us, the fear becomes a roar

Once that wheel is in motion, don't lose what you have found.
I'm talking about the burning wheel of tongues, everything that makes it go around.
We're all born in the devil's scorn, they want to see you die.
Are you true?  Everything they say is a lie.

1 2 3, Nothing's for free
4 5 6, Pick up the sticks and go home.

Lyrics reprinted WP/FYC by Trip N. Gregory
Reformatted and extracted to a single lyric file by Doug Henkle