The mountains are full of sulfur and sacrilage.  
Where the religion you played at fell at your fingertips 
and the burn of my rage fell deeper than any whisky. 

Directives issued in burning rain,
where you promised the world to your ragtag band of converts.
Falling into wonderland through the holes in your logic.  

How far could you take your disallusions?
To the alter of burnt bridges?
To the feet of men who smoke cigarettes?

Will I be the next art piece you bury?
You took me to these mountains
now you get to watch me die.