The Denver Boot Redux

I'm no longer the newborn,
Lord, that's all I know is true. 
I've returned from the ocean,
Cradling the Denver boot.

And bare feet walk the hills of Fr'isco!
Soft boys, cut your eyes to me. 
The truth is I let down my father. 
I throw my boots back in the water. 
They are hollow. They are hollow. 

At that dead goat farm, outside Denver,
Father was living in his broken-down coop.
The Helling hail came in a bad way. 
His body revenged as he asked for the truth. 
I cradled my father in my arms. 
With my nails, I scraped the sick away. 
I put my nail clips in a bottle,
A trophy on the dash, but when the sun shines through the bottle,
It is hollow! It is hollow!

I can't wear the Denver boot. 
I can't wear the Denver boot. 
I can't wear the Denver boot. 
I can't wear...

I will bronze my father's body;
Mount it otuside my factories. 
The first will be a see-through glassworks. 
The other will be a true goat farm.
And I will blow perfect bottles. 
And I will squeeze the goats myself.
I will gouge the world of its Helling.
I hope my will don't come up hollow. 
Hollow...
Hollow...

[repeat hollow until song's end]