well the sheaves have
|
all been brought
|
but the fields have washed away
|
and the palaces now stand
|
where the coffins all were laid
|
and the times we see ahead
|
we must glaze with rosy hues
|
for we don't wish to admit
|
what it is we have to lose
|
<Interlude>
|
millennia in coming
|
the modern age is here
|
it sanctifies the future
|
yet renders us with fear
|
so many theories
|
so many prophecies
|
what we do need
|
is a change of ideas
|
when we are scared
|
we can hide in our reveries
|
but what we need
|
is a change of ideas
|
change of ideas, change of ideas
|
what we need now
|
is a change of ideas
|
cked down
|
and they put you first in line
|
And so you finally ask yourself
|
just how big you are
|
and take your place in a wiser
|
world of bigger motor cars
|
<Intelrude>
|
So Where the hell was Biggles
|
when you needed him
|
last Saturday
|
And where were all the sportsmen
|
who always pulled you though
|
They're all resting down
|
in Cornwall
|
writing up their memoirs
|
for a paper-back edition
|
of the Boy Scout Manual
|
See there! A man born
|
|
-----------------
|
Change Of Ideas.
|
| Bad Religion |
