Unholy ghost in this machine

Brother John Staggered out of his desert:  
picking teeth with a scorpion stinger.  
His eyes wide, evidently blinded  
by the bone white sand, and a mescaline vision.  
Said- “Forty thousand years or forty God's-eye days  
left me with no money and my devil to pay.  
Now I’ll settle for a shot of scotch  
and a chance to get a glance at the Reaper’s watch.”  
 
It's so lonely being god, like,  
your only friends are avatars.  
I pay a visit just to get the spike,  
and collect a few new battle scars.  
Tiny crucifixions,  
quaint assassinations  
are of no real concern;  
I’ll always come backalways  
come back to you.  
 
I put the money in the brief case.  
I got it from the man they call the Dead Ringer.  
Caught my train to my secret place  
where I met up with that underground singer.  
She sang: “Forty thousand years or forty god’s-eye days-”  
I was working for the cash to keep my devils paid.  
All she could produce was a bottle of scotch;  
I was pissed to see her wrist had on the Reaper’s watch.  
 
It’s so lonely feeling godlike.  
Can’t leave behind any evidence.  
Let they who seek have do it in faith  
as they approach my place of residence.  
Tiny mutilations.  
Quaint assignations  
are of no real concern.  
I’ll always come back  
always come back for you.  
 
I'm an unholy ghost in this machine.  
Unholy ghost in this machine:  
answering the dirty prayer  
for that  
laundered money.  
Ain’t it paranormal  
how I can get away clean?  
 
“God, fuck, and damn it” is philosophy:  
taken from the man who said he’s seen it all.  
I read the book, and I took it all in,  
and now it’s time for my devil to call.  
It’s been forty thousand years or forty god’s-eye days  
since I was by a corpse who was a pretty good lay:
sipping Tennesee (keep your bottle of scotch)
while I take the time to shine the Reaper’s watch.  
 
This is what it is to be godlike;  
you proportion the worms to the number of stars.  
A hundred bullets, or just three good spikes,  
and all your friends are avatars.  
Tiny crucifixions.  
Quaint assassinations  
are of no real concern,  
but they can always come back  
always come back to you.