Like they said in the days of old One day your faces will grow mold For the judgment is close at hand When the water will take back the land From the tallest of the tall To the pick-axe on the wall When every bit of soul is canned When the water will take back the land There's a blow-dryer stinging your eyes When the alcohol is starting to rise There's a firehose on a marching band When the water will take back the land Well, the graveyard is starting to fry And the moonshiners taking to the sky There's a stone turn into sand Where the water will take back the land