It seems most men are made from the husks of shining stones

You toss them in a river first they glint and then they don't

And just because you're a father don't exempt you from sin

Sometimes you must spill blood to see the mettle within

Well Mary died on a sunday outside of evening mass

she laid on the sidewalk helplessly watching the procession pass

oh someone oh anyone she cried into the crowd

Oh someone oh anyone please help me

Well it's easy being an altruist when you watch from windows stained saintly silver

when your garden coughs with cockle and you fear the laughter the waning laughter

well mary grew up on druid hill she was Baltimore bred

and her bones hit the sidewalk her blood Baltimore red

Ans the papers wrote when Mary died she was a known solicitor a drug abuser

She lived in care for most of her life her father had shot himself he had killed himself

And that's all they wrote for Mary the whore a few solemn words and nothing more

So ask yourself when you look down do I have hands or do I have claws

do I rip and tear at flesh and silk or do I caress our cloth with loving warmth

now look at the faces of those who ran they melee with pincers they're larva eaters

blood too has found them they're no strangers they're window gazers

their wings whistle shivers through the dark they're just like monsters they hold the dagger they hold the dagger

Pardon me miss would you follow if I said I had a job

yes honey but what brings you here the night is cold and dawn is nearing

just you dear say you hear that the toll echoing it getting wider

yes honey it purrs around us there's an evening mass tonight I have cold shivers

maybe so dear but listen closer that bell my friend Knells for you