Like they said in the days of old
One day your faces will grow mold
For the judgment is close at hand
When the water will take back the land

From the tallest of the tall
To the pick-axe on the wall
When every bit of soul is canned
When the water will take back the land

There's a blow-dryer stinging your eyes
When the alcohol is starting to rise
There's a firehose on a marching band
When the water will take back the land

Well, the graveyard is starting to fry
And the moonshiners taking to the sky
There's a stone turn into sand
Where the water will take back the land