It was the first day of July
No wind breathed in the sky
When a pin-striped suit
Saw that the Institute of Mental Health was burning.
He stood upon the corner
Where the sun was warmer
Looking across the street
He moved the shackles on his feet
As the Institute was burning
Flames were roaring, singing like a thunderstorm
Smoke was pouring straight up to the sky
Windows smashing, Gothic doors and lintels fall
Timbers crashing and we both know why
Nobody else came by to stare
You see, they didn't really care
Can't call the fire brigade
None of them had been paid
And so the Institute was burning
Throughout the city, people say it isn't pretty
Everyone agrees, and everyone feels glad
Doctored brains celebrate and everyone waves their chains
It's a pity they're all mad
The Institute of Mental Health
Spontaneously killed itself
Ashes to ashes
And dust to dust
My chains began to rust
As the Institute was burning, burning, burning
