The Radio Makes Hideous Sounds.

I'm Used To Writing Songs And Songs-i Can Fill Em Up With Symbolism And Metaphors. When You Write A Book (chronicles, Vol. 1), You Gotta Tell The Truth, And It Can't Be Misinterpreted.

Madonna, She Still Has Not Showed, We See This Empty Cage Now Corrode, Where Her Cape Of The Stage Once Had Flowed, The Fiddler He Now Steps To The Road, On The Back Of The Fish Truck That Loads, While My Conscience Explodes.

I Make My Stand And Remain As I Am, And Bid Farewell And Not Give A Damn.

In The Valley Of The Giants Where The Stars And Stripes Explode, The Peaches They Were Sweet And The Milk And Honey Flowed.

Let Me Drink From The Waters Where The Mountain Streams Flood Let The Smell Of Wildflowers Flow Free Through My Blood Let Me Sleep In Your Meadows With The Green Grassy Leaves Let Me Walk Down The Highway With My Brother In Peace Let Me Die In My Footsteps Before I Go Down Under The Ground.