Lyrics:

Under a dying olympic flame
They dance gaily around yonder maypole
They hammer nails to the cross
And the blood on the floor is yours
You may put me in a barrel, roll my skull down the hill
Tar and feather for the non-conformist
The blood on the floor is yours
I hoist my half-dead wife
Hold her tightly in my arms
I dream I kill her for my own concerns
The blood on the floor is really mine

Protrusive eyes, a fixed gaze
I arose in a haze
To open for my very lover
Hands dripping
Fingers flowing

Under a dying olympic flame
Life revolves around yonder maypole
The gates will never really open
And the blood on the floor is yours
She’ll wail hysterical orgasms
And laugh at tormentor’s scourge
Chains and fetters for the formalist
The blood on the floor is yours
In beautifully groomed gardens
The gates of life opens upon death
A monstrous and hideous passing
The blood on the floor is really mine