Standing in the space that holds the silent lace
|
of night away from you
|
You think that you can hold the searing, molten gold
|
between your fingers...
|
But it slips through, tearing tendons as it goes,
|
exposing the white of a knuckle...
|
flesh-and-metal forming letters in the mould.
|
|
Cradling your gun, after choosing the ones
|
you think should die -
|
Lying on the hill... crawling over the windowsill
|
into your living-room
|
They stare out, glass-eyed aimless heads,
|
bodies torn by vultures..
|
you are the man whose hands are rank with
|
the smell of death.
|
Saviour of the Fallen, Protector of the Weak,
|
Friend of the Tall Ones, Keeper of the Peace...
|
Ah, but it is the only way you know.....
|
|
Looking out to sea, a flattened plane of weeds which bear no living
|
You crush life in your fist as your heart is kissed by the lips of death
|
Ghosts betray you, ghosts betray you,
|
in the night they steal your eye
|
from its socket...
|
and the ball hangs fallen on your cheek.
|
Complaining tongues are stilled; a thousand mouths
|
are filled with rusting metal.
|
Your face a shade of green; somehow you try
|
to speak through all the garbage in your mouth
|
But it won't come out, and you cannot frame the words
|
as your stepson
|
throws your fame into the flames and you are burned.
|
Saviour of the Fallen, Protector of the Weak,
|
Friend of the Tall Ones, Keeper of the Peace.
|
Ah, but it is the only way you know..........
|
|
-----------------
|
The Emperor On His War-Room I. The Emperor
|
| Van Der Graaf Generator |
