Merciless nature, human and mother walk this land
|
Each through the arm of the other
|
Their tithe they count in millions
|
In a Land that loves its villains
|
|
So calculating it parses a man
|
Between the hand that held the dream
|
And the sword being held by the hand
|
Their golden frames hang gleaming
|
Tangled bones of their crimes bleaching
|
Their golden frames hang gleaming
|
Bleaching bones of their crimes tangling
|
|
There he stands a mere mist of a thing
|
Waiting his turn to challenge the King
|
He counts his time in centuries
|
He lives on the smallest of mercies
|
He counts his time in centuries
|
|
As the map is unrolled the dagger comes out
|
And that which was certain will now end in doubt
|
Thank you Sir Francis Bacon
|
Another piece of advice not taken
|
Thank you Sir Francis Bacon
|
Another piece of advice not taken
|
|
-----------------
|
Sir Francis Bacon At The Net
|
Cowboy Junkies |