Bottoms up, Socrates - Clutch

They came marching down the street in robes

In the spirit of the Spanish inquisition

Guitars and trombones

Mechanical monkeys make good musicians

Street urchins, the smugglers and dingos

Dead languages and living man’s lingos

Put the relics of a saint in a glass box

And march him around the block

Hangin' on the words of a mad man

Islands in the abyss

No use for the poet

When the hopeless seek no bliss

Mason jars of petroleum

You know those kids don’t play

And should you ever get a hold of them

I’ll tell you exactly what they’ll say:

«Time we told you son about the family curse»

And when they open up the diary to gain an explanation

They find only terminal verse

Hangin' on the words of a mad man

Islands in the abyss

No use for the poet

When the hopeless seek no bliss

X-ray visions, eye in the sky

And the naked being led by the blind

So bottoms up now, socrates

Hemloc straight up goes down easy

Hangin' on the words of a mad man

Islands in the abyss

No use for the poet

When the hopeless seek no bliss

X-ray visions, eye in the sky

The naked being led by the blind

So bottoms up now, socrates

Hemlock tastes like ripple wine

X-ray visions, eye in the sky

The naked being led by the blind

So bottoms up now, socrates

Hemloc straight up goes down easy