I'm sick of the sight of some snot-nosed kid
|
Cutting a swathe through the age of deconstruction
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Picking at the sores of the dying beast
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And winning all the prizes for imagination
|
I don't know what we've got to lose
|
But I see the statues beginning to fall
|
The deisel's turning, the moon is high
|
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Ch: What the hell are we waiting for?
|
I see the smoke on the blue horizon
|
I smell the fires of the burning season
|
What the hell are we waiting for?
|
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I'm sick of the ironies piled up high
|
In this sneery culture with its knowing smile
|
I'm sick of the sermons from the Church of Unbelief
|
All fat, empty and anaesthetised
|
The emperor's out riding naked again
|
I can't believe we're still playing this tired old game
|
Let's get out there and cut him down
|
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Ch: What the hell are we waiting for? . .
|
|
On a smoky yellow sunset, I'm sitting at the wheel
|
As the traffic crawls by on the ten-lane
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Bumper to bumper, nowhere to nowhere into the next millenium
|
I see you drowning in a sea of rage
|
Let's go back and get the ones who put you down here
|
The highway's jammed up with disinformation
|
And the anaesthetic dealers are selling by the million
|
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Ch: What the fuck are we waiting here for? . .
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|
-----------------
|
Burning Season
|
| New Model Army |
