Lyrics of 'Uncalled For' by The Gothic Rangers
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Won't you light a candle
And turn off the other lights
Pull a chair up to the table
Take the hand that's on your right
Don't let your hopes be over-raised
It will or won't occur
Please free your minds and concentrate
On those long interred
I know this is unusual
For a get-rich seminar
But we will call up spirits
Who'll teach us to go far
They who knew the secret
Of fortune piled
Like Carnegie, Frick, or Gould
Hush, I think I feel one now
Here's my skull
With dried brains in it
You can set it on the mantle
Or hang it like a skillet
Here's my femur
Don't let it go to waste
You can use it for a poker
In your fancy fireplace
You've taken everything
Might as well take it all
Ere I return to the underworld
A curse down I call
May all of your dreamtimes
Be twisted and bent
And filled with night terrors
Until you repent
Repent of your greediness
And scheming hard hearts
I call down this imprecation
Of brimstone and sparks
Won't you please forgive me
For this bad spirit's words
He must have caught the slip-stream
Of others more preferred
I promise this is worth it
Just gaze at this great house
I've learned so much from moguls
Who are departed now
Don't be abashed, my friends
By an unexpected glitch
Sometimes the summoning
Brings a spiteful, vagrant witch
Let us breathe and try again
To call the giants of old
Who broke the backs of strikers
Hush, something is in the cold
Here's my ribcage
For your evening merriment
Play it just like a xylophone
Even fascists need to vent
And here's my long finger bone
I don't need it no more
But I'm pointing it at you
And at what you stand for
I cry havoc on you
On your fetish of lucre
Shall I tell you what I know
About your own spirit future?
You request robber barons
Those philanthropists, ha, ha
They gave to the public
What they stole from my fist
They built art museums
Libraries, schools for free
My wages were redirected
Half my life was garnisheed
O, foul spirit, be-gone!
Leave us to our own pursuits
How dare you treat us guilty
For desiring profit fruits
Silence! table-tipper
Shut your waxy, squinchin' lips
And listen to my soul a-wailin'
As music from the crypt
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