An address to the golden door
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I was strumming on a stone again
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pulling teeth from the pimps of gore when hatched
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a tragic opera in my mind...
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and it told of a new design
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in which every soul is duty bound
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to uphold all the statues of boredom therein lies
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the fatal flaw of the red age
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Because it was nothing like we'd ever dreamt
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our lust for life had gone away with the rent we hated
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and because it made no money nobody saved no one's life.
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So we burned all our uniforms
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and let nature take its course again
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and the big ones just eat all the little ones
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that sent us back to the drawing board.
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In our darkest hours
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we have all asked for some
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angel to come
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sprinkle his dust all around
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but all our crying voices they can't turn it around
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and you've had some crazy conversations of your own.
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We've got rules and maps and guns in our backs
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but we still can't just behave ourselves
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even if to save our own lives so, says I, WE ARE A BRUTAL KIND.
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'Cause this is nothing like we'd ever dreamt
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tell Sir Thomas More we've got another failed attempt
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'Cause if it makes them money they might just give you life this time.
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So Says I
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| Iron Horse |
