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 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

Underneath the staircase there's a mast which flies a flag
Despite dankess beyond imagining, it floats on to a higher hole
In tunnels gouged beneath 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
Where all the souls in a city go drowning by starlight
Where each choice you make is a fierce firefight, it's a new mistake?

Inside of a room there's a cage, there's a cage
It's a-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 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
Where all the souls in a city go drowning by starlight
Where each choice you make is a fierce firefight, it's a new mistake?