I can't see the devil for the fire
Sitting in the back all quiet and polite
Room filled up with the smell of burning tires
Demons be gone it's the season of the fly

Begone! Demons be gone
Begone! Demons be gone

Laid waste crater face
Humming of the highway
Head becomes the hand becomes the knife becomes the mind
Hazmat-psychic-suit sweeping through the siding
I wanna be reborn, but how many times do I gotta die?

Begone! Demons be gone
Begone! Demons be gone