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The Taxpayers
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Plant Oak
Mother Mary, make me good. Give me money. Give me hope. Where is the door? What should I do? Clouds have gathered under you.
Hey, Saint Michael, fallen from grace - you arch angel in disgrace. Where is the light? What should I do? Clouds have gathered under you.
'Link hands, lie down, and tie rope. By the full moon and black skies, plant oak.'
Listen Satan, I am at a loss. No one can give me a word with God. Where is the power? Where is the truth?
'You know the answer, you know what to do: Link hands, lie down, and tie rope. By the full moon and black skies, plant oak.'
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