And the games still go on
|
With a warning
|
to the bishop from the pawn
|
No one sees an angel
|
till it smashes to the ground
|
And then you run somewhere
|
And leave it lying there
|
Then on we sail
|
Never thinking
|
that the wind could ever fail
|
No one gets to heaven
|
till they've lived awhile
|
in hell
|
And even then it's rare
|
That you'll be going there
|
<Interlude>
|
Now we understand
|
All traces of Magica
|
must be eliminated
|
Infection. Infection
|
Delete, delete,
|
delete, delete, delete
|
delete delete delete delete
|
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
|
|
-----------------
|
Magica
|
| Dio |
