The Priests of the Golden Bull

Who brought the bomb wrapped in business cards and stained with steak?
Who hires a maid to wash his money?
Who keeps politicians on the take?
Who puts outspoken third-worlder's in jail just to shut them down?
Oh the lies vary from place to place
But the truth is still the same, even in this town
Their tongues are silver forks
There's a lack of wisdom
You can hear it on their breath
Windego
Third worlder's see it first
The dynamite, the dozers, the cancer and the acid rain
The corporate caterpillars come into our backyards
And turn the world to pocket change
Reservations are the nuclear front line
Uranium poisoning kills
We're starving in a handful of gluttons
We're drowning in their gravy spills
Money junkies all over the world
Trample us on their way to the bank
They run in every race
Windego
It's delicate confronting these priests of the golden bull
They preach from the pulpit of the bottom line
Their minds rustle with billion dollar bills
You say silver burns a hole in your pocket and
Gold burns a hole in your soul
Well, uranium burns a hole in forever
It just gets out of control
There was a crooked man who walked a crooked mile
He raised a crooked sixpence to hide a crooked style
He won a crooked vote and smiled a crooked smile
Windego
Their tongues are silver forks
There's a lack of wisdom
You can hear it on their breath
Windego