Alchemical masterminds of a grand design,
Were following the drum beats of the mean streets,
To the Gates of Heaven that were firmly shut,
Saying God was away at lunch for the next thousand years.
So those prairie prophets strummed on their Ozark sitars,
Contemplating the nature of peace in a world gone mad,
Wondering why those up-tight suits walked their way to oblivion,
Trading in their minds to pay the fines of a past existence.
Lighting those cigarettes of Aramaic Scripture to calm the soul,
These Rishis walked through the desert between compassion and insanity,
Finding new meaning in those coyote howls,
Writing down those sacred sounds on the wings of passing cherubim.
Throwing off the shackles of reality these holy men finally soared,
Passed paradise and infinity and sanity,
Resting on that spinning top that was the galaxy,
Sleeping beneath the sheets of eternity.
