Smoke rises from an ice factory on the edge
On the edge of a city that exists in perpetual gloom
I snatch a note from the basket of a passing bicycle
It says “Go to the flour factory
There’s something waiting there for you.”

Under the window, covered by curtains
All lacy and splattered with blood
We find crutches in the corner
And bullets on she shelves
Which I dismiss at once as being equivalent
Irrelevant, in and of themselves

Underneath the staircase there’s a mast which flies a flag
Despite darkness beyond imagining, it floats on to a higher hole
In tunnels gouged beneath the basement room are, unmistakably
Sets of bloody handprints on a crumbling wall

Oh, won’t you be there with me for it tonight
In this hut-to-hut witch hunt down the tunnels of Old Yellowcake
Where all the souls in the city go drowning by starlight
Where each choice you make is a fierce firefight or a new mistake

Inside of a room is a cage, is a cage. It’s made out of chain and glass
It’s about forty feet high and three feet wide, it was built to last
It’s against a brick wall in an old muddy corner of a basement tunnel room
There’s a man in the cage in the old muddy corner. He’s asleep but he’ll wake up soon

Under the window, covered by curtains, all lacy and splattered with blood
We find crutches in the corner and bullets on she shelves
Which I dismiss at once as being equivalent, irrelevant, in and of themselves

Oh, won’t you be there with me for it tonight
In this hut-to-hut witch hunt down the tunnels of Old Yellowcake

Oh, won’t you be there with me for it tonight
In this hut-to-hut witch hunt

Down the tunnels of Old Yellowcake
Where all the souls in the city go drowning by starlight
Where each choice you make is a fierce firefight or a new mistake