History of The Gable Skulls

I keep them in the cellar.
The dust soaks up their yells.
I break them with a chunk of wood
And wallow in their smells.

Their ribs I lick them clean of meat;
Their skin I cure and hang.
Their ghosts a choir of tapping feet,
A booming femurang.

Chorus:
Oh mom, Oh Pa, I'm gone, How far?

(There's voodoo in them bones boy,
There's voodoo in them bones.
For every sack of skin that spilts,
Another boy atones.)

I make them swear they love me,
Before I start to sing,
And if they try to shove me,
I turn them into things.

Humble, prostrate, cowering,
A mess vibrating, scared.
There's music in those veins and shit;
A rhythm ripe and rare.

I inter them under sleepers.
Their bones I keep for me.
The loco pounds them deeper;
Grinds their spirit free.

The cellar stinks of carnage;
Astrewn with chunks and bones.
The voodoo only smiles out loud,
On ribcage xylophones.