The disc brakes drag,
|
the chequered flag sweeps across the oil-slick track.
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The young man's home; dry as a bone.
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His helmet off, he waves: the crowd waves back.
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One lap victory roll. Gladiator soul.
|
The taker of the day in winning has to say,
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Isn't it grand to be playing to the stand,
|
dead or alive.
|
|
The sunlight streaks through the curtain cracks,
|
touches the old man where he sleeps.
|
The nurse brings up a cup of tea ---
|
two biscuits and the morning paper mystery.
|
The hard road's end, the white god's-send
|
is nearer everyday, in dying the old man says,
|
Isn't it grand to be playing to the stand,
|
dead or alive.
|
|
The still-born child can't feel the rain
|
as the chequered flag falls once again.
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The deaf composer completes his final score.
|
He'll never hear the sweet encore.
|
The chequered flag, the bull's red rag,
|
the lemming-hearted hordes
|
running ever faster to the shore singing,
|
Isn't it grand to be playing to the stand,
|
dead or alive.
|
|
-----------------
|
The Chequered Flag (Dead Or Alive)
|
| Jethro Tull |
