there were six black cadillacs
rolling through the night without a sound
headed for the walled estate
on a hill, overlooking shantytown
somebody riding shotgun
someone watching carefully
with a briefcase full of sorrow
on its way to you and me

it's a world of trouble
it's an old routine
it's a world of trouble
it's a dangerous machine

there were six saints kneeling
in a bombed-out church with no roof
when it all came down
somehow they were bulletproof
six saints kneeling
in a hurricane
in a world on fire
in a burning rain

it's a world of trouble
it's an old routine
it's a world of trouble
it's a dangerous machine