Fog dangling thick

Can't see the right road, streets are sick

The eight day mill it might grind slow

But it grinds fine

Indian rope man, while looking on

Tells common clay he's heavenly born

Retired layman looks on in scorn

With a transplanted heart

Kiss him quick, he has to part

Indian rope man sees the times

Splitting loose the edge of minds

Catches losers in his line, in his line, yeah

Kiss him quick, he has to part

Fog dangling thick

Can't see the right road, streets are sick

The eight day mill it might grind slow

But it grinds fine

Indian rope man, while looking on

Tells common clay he's heavenly born

Retired layman looks on in scorn

With a transplanted heart

Kiss him quick, he has to part