Uncle Clive

Awake and sing, all ye that dwell in dust
And help us see our hanging tree is full of, lunacy and lust
Our fingers black from all the books we’ve burned
Still we’re surprised that we disguise, our hatred as concern
Uncle Clive would tell you not to keep it simple
And faith is just an educated guess
While you’re keeping busy cleaning out the temple
I’m happy out here in this wilderness
We keep a book of all the ones we’ve lost
We use our fist like an abacus, to calculate the cost
But a soul is not some charm upon a chain
And it’s incorrect to say that we collect, the rust caused by the rain
Uncle Clive would tell you not to keep it simple
And faith is just an educated guess
While you’re keeping busy cleaning out the temple
I’m happy out here in this wilderness
I’m happy out here in this wilderness
I’m happy out here in this wilderness