DESCRIPTION:
Fog dangling thick
Can't see the right road, streets are sick
The eight day mill it might grind slow
But it grinds fine, yeah

Indian rope man, while looking on
Tells common clay he's heavenly born
Retired layman looks on in scorn
With a transplanted heart
Kiss him quick, he has to part

Indian rope man he sees the times
Splitting loose the edge of minds
He catches losers in his line, in his line, yeah
Kiss him quick, he has to part

As the fog dangling thick
Can't see the right road, streets are sick
The eight day mill it might grind slow
But it grinds fine

Indian rope man, while looking on
Tells common clay he's heavenly born
Retired layman looks on in scorn
With a transplanted heart
Kiss him quick, he has to part
Oh, yeah