Doomsday, the end of the centurynIn accord with prophecynAre all your fears and fires and familynWritten within the Book of Butchery?nnMy appetite is endlessnThe people defenselessnThis land is big, this land is biggernBut never as big as the mouth of a singer-oh.nnEvery morning I listen to confessionalnCouldn't give a shit 'bout the bulk of itnStill I keep it professionalnThen, as penance, I tell 'em to proselytizenSay: the sun is red, say that I am rednSay: all your bases belong to usnnAnd of doomsday, the end of the centurynIn accord with prophecynPut all your fears, your fires, your familynInto the mouth of Final FantasynnAll the bishops will kneel at their alters and singnAnd remove their coils, their rings, their jewelsnAnd lay them all down in sacrificenWhat of things? What thing? What is this thing?nI've a temper as shiny as any bling!nAnd all this attention will gain you no favour in paradisennThe cracknWhere is the crack?nWhen did InCrack?nnThen I'll stand alone on a planet withnNothing left to remember itnI'll try, I'll try, I'll try to prevent itnI'll try, I'll try, but I'll never stop it, nonnMuzzle me, muzzle muzzle menBind my will and break of menYou try, you try, you try to prevent itnYou'll try, you'll try, but you'll never stop it, no