The Wheatfields East of Eden

They’ve turned us into altar boys;
hired angels sing.
They’ve turned us into windup toys,
artificial dreaming things.
They tell us where to sit,
and tell us what to say.
We watch under a ceiling fan,
the Alter of the Ape.

They tell us what is right and wrong,
to the altar make their way.
They plagiarized their angel’s songs,
and bowed their heads to pray.

Give us shelter, give us peace,
you shaved ape we adore.
Give us money, make us need.
You shaved ape, we need more.

They sing their songs for man alone,
the shaved ape and his pomp.
They cheer him when he shouts, and
screams,
and tremble when he stomps.

A testament to their greatness sang,
the piano keys twanged off.
The righteous bowed before the ape,
and forgot about the lost.
The ceiling fan continues,
as they continue to pray.
Watch them all destroy themselves,
before the Altar of the Ape.