The Big Push
What do you see with the eyes in your head?
Pitiful struggle, or are you content?
Fear and anger so garishly clothed, resignation and ignorance tied up in bows
A king to a pauper, a sad wizened clown
A joke an a punchline, people all round
Rose-tinted glasses and no-one is sane
A big waltzing blindfold, we are what we play
We are what we play, and nothing is sane
What can he hear with his ears in his hands?
Her silently weeping, his head in the sand
Patiently lurking in water in wine, he'll drown by her tears, or choke on his time
For what we've forsaken and taken too soon
Before murdering old mother, we'd dance on the moon
Deaf to the thunder that silently cracks, we're holding our breath until her collapse
What do you feel with your heart in your chest?
Some few thousand years, could soon come to rest
Do you feel the butcher? The bullet that bores
With corkscrewing chaos and mighty a roar
What do you feel with your heart in your chest?
Some few thousand years could soon come to rest
On the shoulders of man and his bag full of bombs
Bell tolling destruction our final swan song
Pitiful struggle, or are you content?
Fear and anger so garishly clothed, resignation and ignorance tied up in bows
A king to a pauper, a sad wizened clown
A joke an a punchline, people all round
Rose-tinted glasses and no-one is sane
A big waltzing blindfold, we are what we play
We are what we play, and nothing is sane
What can he hear with his ears in his hands?
Her silently weeping, his head in the sand
Patiently lurking in water in wine, he'll drown by her tears, or choke on his time
For what we've forsaken and taken too soon
Before murdering old mother, we'd dance on the moon
Deaf to the thunder that silently cracks, we're holding our breath until her collapse
What do you feel with your heart in your chest?
Some few thousand years, could soon come to rest
Do you feel the butcher? The bullet that bores
With corkscrewing chaos and mighty a roar
What do you feel with your heart in your chest?
Some few thousand years could soon come to rest
On the shoulders of man and his bag full of bombs
Bell tolling destruction our final swan song
Contributed by Reinhard - 2024/11/6 - 03:15
×
![]()
Note for non-Italian users: Sorry, though the interface of this website is translated into English, most commentaries and biographies are in Italian and/or in other languages like French, German, Spanish, Russian etc.
