Deep Sea Station - Cloakroom

With a handful of dirt set him face down

Buried a saint just to sell off the house

Wade through the wastes

Shake off the storm

Gold skin of gods keeping your babies warm

Your customs felt strange and pretty played out

Driving a sword through the heart of your doubts

Saw what you saw and word got around

Ships disappeared in the cumulus cloud

The rat race has run a serpentine path

Free to escape from the bondage of death

Welcomed the change

Sick with the thirst

Drunk off the taste of the blood of the Earth

Scoured the mine

Called down the well

To find a faraway self

Someone you knew

Someone you’ve got to keep down

To writhe in the depths

Called out your name

Safe from the fires of Hell

But death holds the bell

That hangs on the wind singing for nobody else

Your faraway self

I will return to the rocks and the roots and debris

Free to return to the rocks and the roots and the weeds

I will return to the rocks and the roots and debris

Free to return to the rocks and the roots and the weeds