Lindens Are the Banes of John's Sans Sun

Picture struggling St. John's Wort by the river,
Where large Linden trees block out sun from the skies.
Somebody calls you, and he drawls quite slowly:
A man with a scar and large size.

Selling you howlers that smell and that steam,
He towers over your head.
Look for the man-
There's no sun in your eyes!-
But he's gone.

Lindens are the banes of John's sans sun.
Lindens are the banes of John's sans sun.
Lindens are the banes of John's sans sun.

Follow him down to a blown well that's spoutin',
Where rocket-hoard people
Want to make you die.

Everyone scowls as you drift past the power
Plants in which the weeds grow so high.

Old newspaper clippings appear before
Your eyes, and they take you way
Back 40 years, and you see stories about Khe Sanh.

Lindens are the banes of John's sans sun.
Lindens are the banes of John's sans sun.
Lindens are the banes of John's sans sun.

Picture yourself trying to build a nation
Laid out by a Pleistocene putz with bad ties.
Suddenly, someone is there, but he turns while
You look for the man of large size.

Lindens are the banes of John's sans sun.
Lindens are the banes of John's sans sun.
Lindens are the banes of John's sans sun.