So you ran from the quiet, cos it made you feel strange And outside you heard voices and the pull of the crowd So you ran amidst faces and fluttering hands Oh you joined the parade of those smiles that avowed: your day is yet to come.
And amidst whirling dancers a man took your arm - offered up two for one, the best deal you could earn. He said "Pay nothing now. Just enjoy and enjoy and come follow the witches while the beat still allows cos your day is yet to come".
So you banished the quiet, as a cure for your sanity to shout with the rest, as a stage for your vanity Oh don't look away from the heave of the masses the Reaper, they say, does his work where the quiet is and your day is yet to come!
But all fevers grow tired, though a crowd cannot see and they'll pull you along on your stumbling feet and you'll see in the shadows that stir on the sides that the quiet still calls, which you swapped for the tide. Oh your day is yet to come?
So stop, and just breathe. And then do it again. And hope hard that the noise in your head will die down cos your ears they will ring till you know you've gone mad and that someone has taken the one thing you had and your day has been and gone.