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The architect angel held ? juda ranch.
Just a dirty mile down on the borderline.
Where he mastered blastin’ and hustled young cattle for slaughter
And dated juda’s daughter.
From the cellar aways to the attics and all across the plains
Broke electric static of religious strain,
And though he was never an addict, he wore scars on his veins.
Like a young girl holds her first pimp, he held his Bible in.
From desert bars and church bazaars, the hunger slowly came
With vulgar faces from vulgar places lookin’ for a game.
Well, ivory gun handles and chamber grease
And souped-up hydroplanes.
The bullets burn from tv silver, bearin’ great cowboys’ names.
Now with 14 inches of gun barrel, smokin’ from the lid,
Spurs on straight black bootheels, he said "they call me the brooklyn kid."
And in his lonely zenith nightmares, well that’s just what they did.
Oh, how he played out his scenes, loaded on

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