The Spiders Dancing:

The airplanes above our dying heads are a mockery of faith;
where is their proof
that faith in venom gives us real wings?
Tell me, holy wraith,
tell me my Son;
Where's the payoff?

Spiders are crawling within my skin.
Giving into the empty sin.
It's the big score but it's not the big win;
no victory,
no love;
where's the pay off?

Dancing underneath the drying sun
we prove our obscene culture,
our life,
our run
through the rat race
drying, dying,
but we never have our fill of the venom.
Where's the payoff?