Smoke rises from the ice factory on the edge,
on the edge of a city that exist in perpetual gloom.
I snatch a note from the basket of a passing bicycle
- "Go to the flour factory.
There´s something waiting there for you."

Under the window, covered by curtains,
all lacy and spattered with blood,
we find crutches in the corner and bullets on the shelves,
which I dismiss at once as being equivalent,
irrelevent, in and of themselves.

Underneath a staircase is a mast which flies a flag.
Despite dankess beyond imagining, it floats on to a higher hole.
In tunnels gouged beneathe the basement rooms 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,
when all the souls in a 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 class.
It´s about forty feet high and three feet wide, and 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 spattered with blood,
we find crutches in the corner and bullets on the 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,
when all the souls in a city go drowning by starlight,
where each choice you make is a fierce firefight or a new mistake?