The Torture Never Stops
Terry Bozzio (drums, background vocals)
Davey Moire (vocals)
Andre Lewis (organ, vocals)
Roy Estrada (bass, vocals)
Dave Parlato (bass)
Napoleon Murphy Brock (saxophone, vocals)
Ruth Underwood (synthesizer, marimba)
Donnie Vliet (harmonica)
Louanne Neil (harp)
Ruben Ladron De Guevara (background vocals)
Sharkie Barker (background vocals)
Flies all green and buzzin',
in this dungeon of despair.
Prisoners grumble and piss their clothes,
and scratch their matted hair.
A tiny light, from a window hole,
a hundred yards away,
is all they ever gets to know
about the regular light in the day.
And it stinks so bad, the stones been chokin',
and weepin' greenish drops.
In the room where the giant fire puffer works,
and the torture never stops.
The torture never stops.
Slime and rot, rats and snot,
and vomit on the floor.
Fifty yoogly soldiers, man,
holdin' spears by the iron door.
Knives and spikes, and guns and the likes
of every tool of pain.
And a sinister midget, with a bucket and a mop,
where the blood goes down the drain.
And it stinks so bad, the stones been chokin',
and weepin' greenish drops.
In the room where the giant fire puffer works,
and the torture never stops.
The torture never stops.
The torture.. the torture..
The torture never stops.
Flies all green and buzzin',
in this dungeon of despair.
An evil prince eats a steaming pig,
in a chamber right near there.
He eats the snouts and the trotters first.
The loins and the groins is soon dispersed.
His carvin' style is well rehearsed.
He stands and shouts:
All men be cursed!
All men be cursed!
All men be cursed!
All men be cursed!
And disagree?
Well, no one durst.
He's the best, of course, of all the worst.
Some wrong been done, he done it first.
And it stinks so bad, his bones been chokin',
and weepin' greenish drops.
In the night of the iron sausage,
where the torture never stops.
The torture never stops.
The torture.. the torture..
The torture never stops.
Flies all green and buzzin',
in this dungeon of despair.
Who are all those people,
that he's locked away down there?
Are they crazy?
Are they sainted?
Are they zeroes,
someone painted?
And it's never been explained,
since it first it was created.
But a dungeon, like a sin,
requires naught but lockin' in,
of everything that's ever been.
Look at her.
Look at him.
That's what's the deal we're dealin' in.
That's what's the deal we're dealin' in.
That's what's the deal we're dealin' in.
That's what's the deal we're dealin' in.
Davey Moire (vocals)
Andre Lewis (organ, vocals)
Roy Estrada (bass, vocals)
Dave Parlato (bass)
Napoleon Murphy Brock (saxophone, vocals)
Ruth Underwood (synthesizer, marimba)
Donnie Vliet (harmonica)
Louanne Neil (harp)
Ruben Ladron De Guevara (background vocals)
Sharkie Barker (background vocals)
Flies all green and buzzin',
in this dungeon of despair.
Prisoners grumble and piss their clothes,
and scratch their matted hair.
A tiny light, from a window hole,
a hundred yards away,
is all they ever gets to know
about the regular light in the day.
And it stinks so bad, the stones been chokin',
and weepin' greenish drops.
In the room where the giant fire puffer works,
and the torture never stops.
The torture never stops.
Slime and rot, rats and snot,
and vomit on the floor.
Fifty yoogly soldiers, man,
holdin' spears by the iron door.
Knives and spikes, and guns and the likes
of every tool of pain.
And a sinister midget, with a bucket and a mop,
where the blood goes down the drain.
And it stinks so bad, the stones been chokin',
and weepin' greenish drops.
In the room where the giant fire puffer works,
and the torture never stops.
The torture never stops.
The torture.. the torture..
The torture never stops.
Flies all green and buzzin',
in this dungeon of despair.
An evil prince eats a steaming pig,
in a chamber right near there.
He eats the snouts and the trotters first.
The loins and the groins is soon dispersed.
His carvin' style is well rehearsed.
He stands and shouts:
All men be cursed!
All men be cursed!
All men be cursed!
All men be cursed!
And disagree?
Well, no one durst.
He's the best, of course, of all the worst.
Some wrong been done, he done it first.
And it stinks so bad, his bones been chokin',
and weepin' greenish drops.
In the night of the iron sausage,
where the torture never stops.
The torture never stops.
The torture.. the torture..
The torture never stops.
Flies all green and buzzin',
in this dungeon of despair.
Who are all those people,
that he's locked away down there?
Are they crazy?
Are they sainted?
Are they zeroes,
someone painted?
And it's never been explained,
since it first it was created.
But a dungeon, like a sin,
requires naught but lockin' in,
of everything that's ever been.
Look at her.
Look at him.
That's what's the deal we're dealin' in.
That's what's the deal we're dealin' in.
That's what's the deal we're dealin' in.
That's what's the deal we're dealin' in.