Out past the quarry, beyond the hinterlands
There lies the sycophant without a God
Nobody knows his cause for faithlessness
His toiling maintenance of the Land of Nod
I have to praise him, I have to praise his name
But I can't deny the feeling that I'm just the same
In darkened cloisters, there races the penitent
A tortured sentiment across his face
He knows the verses, vulgar and formally
But more importantly, he knows his place
I have to praise him, I have to praise his name
But I can't deny the feeling that I'm just the same
The broken body, the scars of poverty
No soul of property to call his own
The Sycophant feels a sickness unto death
There is no final breath when he dies alone
I have to praise him, I have to praise his name
But I can't deny the feeling that I'm just the same