Like they said in the days of old
One day your faces will grow mold
For the judgement is close at hand
When the water will take back the land
From the tallest of the tall
To the pickaxe on the wall
When every bit of soul is canned
When the water will take back the land
There's a blow-dryer stinging your eyes
When the alcohol is starting to rise
There's a fire hose on the marching band
When the water will take back the land
Well, the graveyard is starting to fry
And the moonshine has taken to the sky
There's a stone turnin' to sand
Where the water will take back the land
One day your faces will grow mold
For the judgement is close at hand
When the water will take back the land
From the tallest of the tall
To the pickaxe on the wall
When every bit of soul is canned
When the water will take back the land
There's a blow-dryer stinging your eyes
When the alcohol is starting to rise
There's a fire hose on the marching band
When the water will take back the land
Well, the graveyard is starting to fry
And the moonshine has taken to the sky
There's a stone turnin' to sand
Where the water will take back the land
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