These are not dispassionate words of the cool
The headline still rules the editor
Shall we douse out the flames or will everybody fuse
And leave us stranded here tomorrow
I heard a calling out, a cry from the heart
From the towns of cement and the beauty
A whisper its turned howl, man he didn
He was standing waiting for tomorrow
Nothing
I could never figure the calendars flow
Nor can i work out how the wild, wild wind blows
But we
Away from the place of no tomorrow
Nothing
Nothing
Oh the wrecking fields are a terrible place
With a sulphurous smell and a frightening pace
And the hook goes early and the critic is king
It
There
While shylock is smiling we
If we surrender ourself to industrial rules
We
Now
Nothing
Nothing
