WORDMULE
© 1995 Mike Pratt/Jim White

Your world is in flames there ain’t even a name
for the feelings you feel as you watch it all burn.
There’s a girl in the distance, she’s calling your name,
but the name that she’s calling is not your name, she calls:

THE WORD-MULE! THE WORD-MULE! THE WORD-MULE!
but he’s plowing the field...
THE WORD-MULE! THE WORD-MULE! THE WORD-MULE!
but he’s plowing the field...

And you can’t walk on that water, I know ’cause I tried.
It’s our spider web-thinking, it’s just too heavy with holes.
And our thoughts they are made up of red Georgia clay,
we think we know everything, but man we don’t know:

THE WORD-MULE! THE WORD-MULE! THE WORD-MULE!
but he’s plowing the field...
THE WORD-MULE! THE WORD-MULE! THE WORD-MULE!
but he’s plowing the field... here come THE WORD-MULE!

My friends,
look out for hustlers for preachers for sheisters,
them silver-tongued saints who pretend to do good,
’cause they’re geeks biting chicken-heads off with their witty rejoinders
they ain’t nothing but greasy fast food for:

THE WORD-MULE! THE WORD-MULE! THE WORD-MULE!
but he’s plowing the field...
THE WORD-MULE! THE WORD-MULE! THE WORD-MULE!
but he’s plowing the field...