Ritual Avalanche

Somebody alive
Consumes somebody rotting
No trees or water to dance
Nobody cries
Nothing becomes nothing
Poor boy in the backseat, in a trance
He lied loudly
In his fringe and beaded pants
Collapsed the mountain highway
In a ritual avalanche

The boy in the backseat contracting a sickness
From the fiery sun
From the decadent land
The boy in the backseat is feeling the fever
And watching the sweat pool in his hands
The boy in the backseat contracting a sickness
From the furious sun
From the desolate land
The boy in the backseat is feeling the fever
And watching the sweat pool in his hands

And he waits, and he waits, and he waits, and he waits, and he waits, and he waits, and he waits
And he waits, and He waits, and he waits, and he waits, and he waits, and he waits, and he waits

He lives, he dies, he's shivering softly
The garden is vast, and empty, and bare
He twitches, he sighs, the tires are faulty
He reaches for another, but another's not there

The boy in the backseat contracting a sickness
From the fiery sun
From the decadent land
The boy in the backseat is feeling the fever
And watching the sweat pool in his hands
The boy in the backseat contracting a sickness
From the furious sun
From the desolate land
The boy in the backseat is feeling the fever
And watching the sweat pool in his hands

And he waits, and he waits, and he waits