The Denver Boot Redux

I'm no longer the newborn,
Lord, that's all I know is true.
I've returned from the ocean,
Cradling the Denver boot.
And bare feet walk the hills of Fr'isco!
Soft boys, cut your eyes to me.
The truth is I let down my father.
I throw my boots back in the water.
They are hollow. They are hollow.
At that dead goat farm, outside Denver,
Father was living in his broken-down coop.
The Helling hail came in a bad way.
His body revenged as he asked for the truth.
I cradled my father in my arms.
With my nails, I scraped the sick away.
I put my nail clips in a bottle,
A trophy on the dash, but when the sun shines through the bottle,
It is hollow! It is hollow!
I can't wear the Denver boot.
I can't wear the Denver boot.
I can't wear the Denver boot.
I can't wear...
I will bronze my father's body;
Mount it otuside my factories.
The first will be a see-through glassworks.
The other will be a true goat farm.
And I will blow perfect bottles.
And I will squeeze the goats myself.
I will gouge the world of its Helling.
I hope my will don't come up hollow.
Hollow...
Hollow...
[repeat hollow until song's end]