History’s a vinyl record stuck in a groove A hundred warring sects claiming to have the truth Blessed robots with so much to prove You could say so much to lose
The scorching air The slumbering mass Of forgotten things
Preening peacocks ignite the fuse Trumpets and promises a turn of the screw To have a human face we’ll have to start all over again Back to the drawing board all the boys and men
When you lose your kite in the wind and fall on the trees You’re sucked in bulletin blown out on T.V. The glory of the past is really only a tomb The thing from the crypt long ago nurtured you