Nelson Algren came to Paddy At some party at The Dead End Alley Yeah, he told him what to celebrate And I met William Butler Yeats Sunday night dance party, Summer 1988 At first I thought it might be William Blake We mix our own mythologies We push them out through PA systems We dictate our doxologies We try to get sleeping kids to sit up and listen And I'm not saying that we could save you But we could put you in a place where you could save yourself And if you don't get born again At least you'll get high as hell Yeah, and sweet St. Paul That must be the hardest luck saint of 'em all We met him at some suburban St. Paul mall Yeah, and St. Theresa came to Holly But I wasn't even at that party I'd already moved out to New York City Yeah, when Judas went up and kissed him I almost got sick I guess I knew what was coming I guess I knew it was coming We gather our gospels from gossip and bar talk And then we declare them the truth We salvage our sermons from message boards and scene reports And we sic them on the youth Yeah, we try out new testaments on the guys sitting next to us In the bars with the bars on the windows, alright And even if you don't get converted tonight You gotta admit the band's pretty tight They did "She's Got Legs" into "Ain't Too Proud To Beg" Into something by the Dixie Dregs And they faked their way through "Fairytale of New York" When the band stopped playing we howled out for more Hey Nelson Algren, Chicago seemed tired last night They had cigarettes where there were supposed to be eyes Hey William Butler Yeats, all the Irish seemed wired last night They tried to separate our girls from our guys They had cigarettes where there were supposed to be eyes