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Satanic Messiah EP

by the Mountain Goats

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1.
We were hungry, there was no food We were restless there were too many things to do So we gathered in a concrete room Eyes up at you and in a small room in Brazil, we were waiting and in a small room in Brazil, we were waiting We were howling like dogs We were feeling the full brunt of the age Guys from our neighborhood looking down at us All of you, all of you Rage, rage, rage and in a small room in Brazil, we were waiting and in a small room in Brazil we were waiting
2.
Shuffled up Sixth Street in the rain Kept my head down as I looked past the people And in the department store, I found what I was looking for This is the church, this is the crucible They come out to Broadway and they look for me I'm on the red steps smoking a cigarette Easy to recognize, black bandages on my eyes This is the church, these are the congregants Sun sets on the broad square and lights come up Feel like this town's gonna put a quick end to me But if I came here to drown, I'm gonna take a few people down This is the church, occupied by the enemy
3.
I saw the posters popping up around the city Pale blue and washed-out red I went down to the arena, pushing through Hoping I'd run into you Sweet freshly-scrubbed smell of the crowd All the excitement in their eyes We were all made young when he stepped onto the stage Like an animal escaping from his cage Raise the trumpet Sound the drum He whom the prophet spoke of long ago has come All of us too dazed to leave when it was over Dawdled by the vendors for a minute Gathered underneath a summer sky I was hoping you'd pass by But though I didn't see you that day, or the next I'm pretty sure that you were there Making your way among the young and happy horde Headed down to your reward Raise the trumpet Sound the drum He whom the prophet spoke of long ago has come
4.
Running like a band of angry schoolboys Up and down the well-lit streets today Bashing in the heads of tax collectors And anybody else who's in our way Bathing in the sunlight that's our birthright Waiting for someone to set the scene Last time he came to town A few stray coins came raining down We scrambled in the dirt for them Like ants around the queen We take aim at the dawning day And we shoot Starving to death, starving to death For the low-hanging fruit Then all at once here comes the motorcade Slow and steady down the beaten track And as we're bashing out the windows of the limo We notice there's nobody in the back And the helicopter lands atop the palace The royal guard assembles at the gate The country's gonna burn And we'll still have to wait our turn Last among contenders of the super-featherweights We take aim at the dawning day And we shoot Starving to death, starving to death For the low-hanging fruit

about

"There would be no inner shrine for the priests to go into alone
and attend the image of the god in his 'House of Flame.'
No darkness, no mystery, no separating the people from their god."

- Winifred Holmes, She Was Queen of Egypt, London, 1959

All files are available at no cost to the listener, or at great cost, or at moderate cost;
or at a cost that seems reasonable to you;
or at a cost that seems extravagant to you because you're feeling extravagant; at any cost, or some, or none, may these files shed their file skins and become songs again,
when the code is reassembled, when the band gathers in the rehearsal space, when the wizard checks the mirror and likes what he sees.

credits

released July 1, 2008

recorded summer 2008 by at Baucom Road
committed to tape by Scott Solter
written and played by John Darnielle
originally released in a vinyl edition of 666 copies
we will come to know our shapes

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about

the Mountain Goats Durham, North Carolina

John Darnielle has written almost 600 songs now, and some of them are very sad, dealing with hard drugs and tragic ends, hurting yourself and others, sicknesses of both body and brain, off-brand alcohols. They are told in beautiful, unnerving, specific detail because he is a very good writer, and also some of them are just true stories about his own life.
—John Hodgman, 2012
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