Hot tribal night
  underneath florescent skies
  bonfires rage strange
  wild waving shouting Picasso faces
  
  In the guise of a lioness
  the wind kisses her burning dress
  you can fell her animal eyes
  you can hear them cry,
  "Be the jewel around my neck,
  never a tear on my burning dress"
  
  Lying, paralyzed,
  a brave prey who lays dying
  and is surrounded by angry spirits
  hunters, guns, drums, and elephants
  
  Why is this night quiet?
  filled with trees filled with eyes
  as she prowls around my feet
  she throws back her head dress and cries,
  "Now you will be mine,
  be my young lion"
  
  Why is this night quiet?
  why the trees filled with eyes?
  as she prowls around my feet
  she throws back her head dress and cries,
  "Be my young lion"