Besedila: Terrorvision. Formaldehyde. Hole For A Soul.

Holy Shamoly, said the priest to the girl,
As he wrapped his arms around her,
And his guts became her world,
She said I can't take any more,
No I can't take any more,
And she could taste the christ,
Breath the church,
Smell the crucifixion,
Of another fallen angel, hooked up on false religion.
She's gotta Hole for a soul,
She's gotta sad, sad tale to tell,
She's gotta Hole for a soul,
Of being twisted in a living hell.

Crikey Moses, he said with bottle in his hand,
Fingers worn thin down to the bone,
From working on the promised land,
Fingers worn thin, tattered and torn from scratching,
All this blood and sand,
Said I can't take any more,
No I can't take any more,
He had a loving wife,
Doting child,
An Englishman's castle for his home,
Every mile stood this broken man,
And every two stood this broken man's dream.

He's gotta Hole for a soul,
He's gotta sad, sad tale to tell,
He's gotta Hole for a soul,
Of being twisted in a living hell