Nomad Wonderland

Oh, the street is a tale of the riches...
Moguls in tattered clothes
selling hypodermic real estate
and paradise through the nose
Here come the wandering contessas
Dressed as though they know how to please
in clothes not meant for cold weather
taking pride in their scabbed knees

And you know, somewhere, in this busy night
there's a man with cold steel in his hand
He needs to spill their crimson sin
in this Nomad Wonderland

The palace is ass-deep in jesters
though they are all near dead on the floor
Hell, it doesn't matter anyway
'cause their king doesn't breathe anymore
Yeah, he died between trips through his scarred-up vein
Guess the third time had to be the charm
He sits, slumped over in his cardboard throne
with the needle still stuck in his arm

And the steel man hiding in the shadows of night
feels his work pouring, warm, over his hand
He will continue to work his mercies
here in Nomad Wonderland