price for a half bottle of flat beer [Chorus:] True stories from our everyday life Could you waste your brother, your sister or wife Small tales from
same people. Why is it that the kind and gentle are subjected to violence and riducule? How is it that the small and mealy-minded have gained so much
board flair Remember the time when Zappa said "Punk, where you going with that Flower in your hair?" There's so many who's who's, Rolling Stones, Rod Stewards and Small
Last Emperor] Every now and then, when I'm home alone In my modern day hut made of iron and stone I pull out my imaginary microphone And weave tales of
ultimate capture and destruction of Magica. The spells from the Book would be used to turn all of those unwilling to join Evilsyde into statues of stone
a string of pearls And now the string is all I've left The light bulbs burn Some ones in the stall Big white Brick wall Makes me feel small And I take
Rackin' the 6 0's for those that want to get personal to home Cock the heavy metal rollin' with my stones Prominent with flashy garments, spread a mill, small
by those very same people. Why is it that the kind and gentle are subjected to violence and riducule? How is it that the small and mealy-minded have
. I can hear other machines again. Apparatus. No-one will ever know, why you walked away, for it is a secret revealing nature that tells this tale. Any
demised, we rebelled, the foes fell War criminals get shipped to cells Cuz they failed to let honor dwell, in their battallion or personel Righteous absence instill hell to battle tales
BEYOND THE BORDER OF STONES YOUNG HARLIN...... BEFORE YOU THE GARGOYLES ARE WATCHING THOUSAND OF CANDLES LIT... THEIR RED EYES TALES OF HEROES ARE TOLD
know what hides in the woods beyond the Border of Stones, young Harlin Before you the Gargoyles are watching thousand of candles lit their red eyes Tales
a brand, history's mark on a perfect face to tell the tale of a plot gone awry. Hands travel to ears, small, petite, stone embedded in each. Moving now
condemned by those very same people. Why is it that the kind and gentle are subjected to violence and riducule? How is it that the small and mealy-minded
Emperor] Every now and then, when I'm home alone In my modern day hut made of iron and stone I pull out my imaginary microphone And weave tales of adventure
exists. I can hear other machines again. Apparatus. No-one will ever know, why you walked away, for it is a secret revealing nature that tells this tale
