There's an order of monks at the race
At the rail, a disorderly clutch
Where they pray for their champion's delivery
And a hot-blooded body to touch
And now that the conventions have fled
To the country from the city's rich blood
There are prostitutes prowling the prairie
Their stilettos are stuck in the mud
You may still remain, you may to set sail
For scourings as wide as the sea
From minnow to whale, the colors will pale
In the light of the dying tree
There's no one to share your delights
And no one with whom you despair
Where the friendly reverses are common
The thrusters are commonly rare
But trust in the seducer of youth
With a voice like an empty tin can
He'll swear that he's no low grave robber
But there he stands with the spade in his hand