I've read the books of men and women and death I've stood in bars listening to conversations About Jesus Christ and the refugee's and the Royal family
Mary Whitehouse spouts bout this and that and all the ins and outs David Ike is right does he need to give his life to prove that he is right Do you
There's dark satanic mills and there's green and pleasant hills Could be riding through Lancashire with all it's Witchcraft dead industrial air You can
And I have a theory the things you do aren't good for you A hymn and a rhyme a plethora of ashtray abuse A bucket full of sunshine and a missile to use
Wrong name wrong face wrong time wrong place Mass chant vigilante bad taste rat race We aren't the side who runs but never buys We are the ones who run
He led a normal life he went to sleep at night And dreamed so many things He didn't like it in lines he'd refuse to do some things That weren't what
Another day another sorry state Will we never learn that there's more things in life than we can imagine We whistled to the wind and drink a lot of gin
Your not a politician and without a thought You would build a fort defend what you are You're not religious and without Catholicism You would turn to
A time when everything was evergreen evergreen and seemingly ideal Nights turning into the days and we didn't notice the change No I didn't think you
(The Police Cover) Just a castaway An island lost at sea Another lonely day With no one here but me More loneliness Than any man could bear Rescue me
So what if they're talking Making up the excuses for the abuses they perform on you And as I live your child will be born with his brain on top it's
The science of finance we give it to the ministry And you sell flowers flowers on the street And your only happiness it is your charity And your only
There's a little bit of springtime in the back of my mind Remembers when there was a time when we danced And we laughed spent some time drinking wine
I smell the bullshit like trenchfoot on your breath You're the disease they call 'we're sick to death' A personal friend of Mr. Sydney James you say
Million little faces staring at you Put your hands in your pockets pull out a coin or two Get back to the job of the day Which is all about winning you
