Beasts of the field we stand
Somewhere between darkness and man
Part of the plan
Part of the proof
Of the fifth plague

Ah, to die in a grove
On a spring day
Tipped over by God
Part of the proof
Part of the plan
Of the fifth plague

Not the glorious death of the sacred bull
But slaughtered and pitched like rotten junk
Into the land of the dead
Where mummified kings and queens wait
In their own heaven

Beasts of the field we stand
Somewhere between darkness and man
Part of the plan
Proof of the power
Of the fifth plague

Like the dying bull in the ring
Struck by the picadores
The last sound he hears in this dusty world
The out of tune trumpets and the sound of applause
As the matador bows