Old Yellow Cake

Smoke rises from an ice factory on the edge

On the edge of a city that exists in perpetual gloom

I snatch a note from the basket of a passing bicycle

It says "Go to the flour factory

There's something waiting there for you."

Under the window, covered by curtains

All lacy and splattered with blood

We find crutches in the corner

And bullets on she shelves

Which I dismiss at once as being equivalent

Irrelevant, in and of themselves

Underneath the staircase there's a mast which flies a flag

Despite darkness beyond imagining, it floats on to a higher hole

In tunnels gouged beneath the basement room are, unmistakably

Sets of bloody handprints on a crumbling wall

Oh, won't you be there with me for it tonight

In this hut-to-hut witch hunt down the tunnels of Old Yellowcake

Where all the souls in the city go drowning by starlight

Where each choice you make is a fierce firefight or a new mistake

Inside of a room is a cage, is a cage. It's made out of chain and glass

It's about forty feet high and three feet wide, it was built to last

It's against a brick wall in an old muddy corner of a basement tunnel room

There's a man in the cage in the old muddy corner. He's asleep but he'll wake up soon

Under the window, covered by curtains, all lacy and splattered with blood

We find crutches in the corner and bullets on she shelves

Which I dismiss at once as being equivalent, irrelevant, in and of themselves

Oh, won't you be there with me for it tonight

In this hut-to-hut witch hunt down the tunnels of Old Yellowcake

Oh, won't you be there with me for it tonight

In this hut-to-hut witch hunt

Down the tunnels of Old Yellowcake

Where all the souls in the city go drowning by starlight

Where each choice you make is a fierce firefight or a new mistake