We lay the night in anguish, snakes drawn out by the tide The compass of decision falls always on one side But many went before us, and still the cries are clear There is no beauty here, just the stench of wine and beer We save no souls We break no promises We can do nothing more than move on headlong through the gloom The thorn between our lips is the missionaries tune Men with open arms turn their faces half away Observe as we approach that we have not come to save We stand as thick as vines though the fruit is torn away There is no beauty here, friends, just death and dark decay
