The trees are listening each time a missile's made.
They hide three mystics the earth sends from her grave
To tell us the future has been stolen away
By diggers, drillers and sellers.
We won't stop 'till we're underneath a black sky.
He took my picture in the cemetery sun;
My body was tempted to crumble into one—
Reunion of dust, until creation's done,
Returning ashes to ashes.
We won't stop 'till we're underneath a black sky.
The commerce, the intrigue—
Self-slaughtered souls cry out to dead poor men
For a drink at the water hole.
But their tongues will burn dry
As the day they were sold
For forests raped into deserts.
We won't stop 'till we're underneath a black sky.
They hide three mystics the earth sends from her grave
To tell us the future has been stolen away
By diggers, drillers and sellers.
We won't stop 'till we're underneath a black sky.
He took my picture in the cemetery sun;
My body was tempted to crumble into one—
Reunion of dust, until creation's done,
Returning ashes to ashes.
We won't stop 'till we're underneath a black sky.
The commerce, the intrigue—
Self-slaughtered souls cry out to dead poor men
For a drink at the water hole.
But their tongues will burn dry
As the day they were sold
For forests raped into deserts.
We won't stop 'till we're underneath a black sky.
Contributed by Bernart Bartleby - 2015/12/29 - 09:33
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Parole e musica di Sam Phillips
Nell’album intitolato “Martinis & Bikinis”