Temple of the Fallen Man

Uncle Bob lives out on legends highway,
they've been stealing from his barn so long.
He don't care much, he just plays his fiddle,
mumbles scripture at the winter fog.
Long ago he was the panacea,
countless heathens bowed at his command.
They carved his name above the marble doorway
in the Temple of the Fallen Man.

Science conjures up it's darkest hour;
they mix the seeds of everything that crawls.
Something stumbles on the black horizon,
nature trembles every time it calls.
They wear the white coats of the modern mystics.
They grasp for meaning in a monkey's hand,
and Darwin rolls dice in the columned hallways
in the Temple of the Fallen Man.

Now academics preach the death of reason
by courtyard fountains where the poisons flow.
The artless songs are sung by shallow schoolgirls
from the waste land of the radio.
Spangled whores dance the Macarena
outside iron vaults where eunuchs stand.
They take and keep the names of non believers
in the Temple of the Fallen Man.

Now all the wise men dragged the corpse of freedom
down through catacombs to ancient crypts.
They kneel to tyranny: his mask of kindness,
his faceless bureaucrats with fiery whips.
The humanist decry the loss of morals
from shifting towers that they built on sand.
They pray to chaos and they drug their children
in the Temple of the Fallen Man.

Some light torches to its withered gardens.
Some would lay siege to the devil's land,
but some leave God the choice of death or pardons
in the Temple of the Fallen Man.