Wired were the arms of a horse on a jet pilot But the smell of blood, he flew over the bay Wired were the arms of a horse on a jet pilot But the smell of blood, he flew over the bay My horse is a shackled old man His, his remorse was that he couldn't survey The skies right before, right before they went grey My horse and my remorse flying over a grey bay Wired were the arms of a horse on a jet pilot But the smell of blood, he flew over the bay Wired were the arms of a horse on a jet pilot But the smell of blood, he flew over the bay My source is the source of all creation Her discourse is that we all don't survey The skies right before, right before they go grey My source and my remorse flying over a grey bay Wired were the arms of a horse on a jet pilot But the smell of blood, he flew over the bay Wired were the arms of a horse on a jet pilot But the smell of blood, he flew over the bay Wired were the arms of a horse on a jet pilot But the smell of blood, he flew over the bay Wired were the arms of a horse on a jet pilot But the smell of blood, he flew over the bay Wired were the arms of a horse on a jet pilot But the smell of blood, he flew over the bay Wired were the arms of a horse on a jet pilot But the smell of blood, he flew over the bay Wired were the arms of a horse on a jet pilot But the smell of blood, he flew over the bay Wired were the arms of a horse on a jet pilot But the smell of blood, he flew over the bay