Wandering Souls of Austin
The wind howls through the limestone walls
Austin, 1885, the shadow falls
On empty streets of dirt and stone Where the oldest violence left
us alone (oooh-ooh)
Ghost of the fathers,
ghost of the soil
Under the chapel, buried in toil
A supernatural hand in the dark
Texas remembers every mark (aaaaah)
An abandoned town of a century past
None of the wood was built to last But the cold regret
still hangs in the air
A spectral presence, a heavy stare
Ghost of the fathers,
ghost of the soil
Under the chapel, buried in toil
A supernatural hand in the dark
Texas remembers every mark
Two hundred years of a quiet scream A cold frontier,
an unholy dream
Austin remembers... The oldest violence...
(hush now)