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Come to the show
in the woods
where the unicorns all live.
With their horns, their CDs
mohawks rise above the trees.

Unicorns hoof pumping, everyone galloping to
the stage where they're all d-d-d-dancing.
All of the neighsayers are throwing their saddles onto the stage
where the smoke machine is heaving.
Hoof pumping, weed smoking, head banging, nostril flaring
in the woods where the rocker's voice is growing hoarse.
Horsing around with their hoofs off the ground,
and the fun has to end with voice of the hunting hound.

Hoofs have stopped pumping
horsehearts have stopped thumping.

The unicorns are dead, the unicorns are dead
the riffs have all been played, the lyrics have been said.
The hunters dine well on the mythical spoils
while spiral horns are decomposing in the soil.

Somewhere out on a beach
of an island in the sea
two unicorns lie
washed up in the sand.
So far from their land
there's only one thing to do
they pick up their flutes
and they play a little tune.