The Priests Of The Golden

Who brought the bomb wrapped up 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-worlders in jail 
Just to shut them down?
Oh the lies vary from place to place but the [bad word] is still the same, 
Even in this town

Money junkies all over the world
Trample us on their way to the bank [bad word] in every race
Windego

Third-worlders see it first: 
The dynamite, the dozers, the cancer and the acid rain
The corporate [bad word] into our backyards
And turn the world to pocket change
Reservations are the nuclear frontline;
Uranium poisoning kills
We're starving in a handful of gluttons
We're drowning in their gravy spills

Their tongues are silver forks
There's a lack of wisdom,
You can hear it on their breath
Windego

It's delicate confronting these priests of the golden bull
They preach from the pulpit of the bottom line
Their [bad word] with million 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