Sentimental rubbish to continue to flow down the backs of all those who miss the failure of their own existence. We here do not think that the grand jury has any conduct with these timely affairs that they cannot just once pick up the telephone and call out to whichever way they please, floating there on the breeze. Elusive is the fate that has taken place within the haunting nature of the long lost cupboard and under the abysmal tree of knowledge we sit, waiting and watching for those footsteps long again, but they never come, and the work is never done, and the rain hails down for tomorrow.
Songs play in the distance, but we know not who they are for. The wishing well is a-filling with sand because there is no one there to lend us a hand, and no one here to tell us a tale about a fortune telling man who was under your command. So you won't go a-wandering late at night, where the huddled and the cuddled sit down with deep delight, where the pagans and the christians and the married few who suffer at the hands of all others, at the hands of themselves. We sit, we excite the waters, the tortures, the golden arches of magic palace sitting sideways upon a log, upon the dangerfield mouse, upon the rocking chiar that sits in the president's quarters, upon the guitar that was strummed by Dylan himself, upon those lips that so subtly kissed your true love goodnight. Awake! Awake I say! Say hello to a brand new day, looking towards the East you see the sun, and looking towards the West you see everyone.
Done is the task set at hand, and no one will think of much but the worries of the engine running by, to go off and slowly die, where the field of flowers softly sway, where the pastures of milk give rise to cows, and all the world turns on its head, and the funnel web spiders come out to play. I hope for a day that sees itself in new light. The day where dawn has a new meaning, and not just for the chosen few, but for the majority of the population, each and every one. The time will come. The day is drawing near. The hour is at hand.
Let me be your man.
Songs play in the distance, but we know not who they are for. The wishing well is a-filling with sand because there is no one there to lend us a hand, and no one here to tell us a tale about a fortune telling man who was under your command. So you won't go a-wandering late at night, where the huddled and the cuddled sit down with deep delight, where the pagans and the christians and the married few who suffer at the hands of all others, at the hands of themselves. We sit, we excite the waters, the tortures, the golden arches of magic palace sitting sideways upon a log, upon the dangerfield mouse, upon the rocking chiar that sits in the president's quarters, upon the guitar that was strummed by Dylan himself, upon those lips that so subtly kissed your true love goodnight. Awake! Awake I say! Say hello to a brand new day, looking towards the East you see the sun, and looking towards the West you see everyone.
Done is the task set at hand, and no one will think of much but the worries of the engine running by, to go off and slowly die, where the field of flowers softly sway, where the pastures of milk give rise to cows, and all the world turns on its head, and the funnel web spiders come out to play. I hope for a day that sees itself in new light. The day where dawn has a new meaning, and not just for the chosen few, but for the majority of the population, each and every one. The time will come. The day is drawing near. The hour is at hand.
Let me be your man.
