Fishermen are drilling holes into the bows of their vessels-
The woman resemble demented Chinese porcelain dolls-
Lawyers and accountants are smashing one another’s heads in with bronze bed posts.
Preacher men are staggering down the main drag with Arabian daggers in their hands and are dowsing the penny arcade with Kerosene.
On market square the flag’s on fire and folks are tied to lampposts-
The windows on Main Street, they’re all boarded up and no one wants to stay.
I say leave them prophets ‘n angels ‘n saints at home-
I’m dwelling amongst mysterious men and by the looks of it there’ll be business to attend.
What’s that chatter ‘bout crowns of thorns?
All I see is bowler hats.
The doctor with his pencil moustache stands in my door frame-
He looks lost ‘n worried-
“I don’t know what ‘tis but it ain’t good…”, he says.
I sit myself down by the window, sip my opium tea and grin while some gypsy choir outside sings us all straight into hell.