Four of the eigth,
timely chanting break wake’th.
Its hardly felt,
when the shit hits the fan.
Its hardly felt,
unless its your can.
When the roosters,
come home to roost.
you’d better get down,
those posters of Zeus.
Tell ne we dont respect gods,
when their names are imortalised,
In our histories of olds.
Dont tell me we dont,
love the Angels or Saints.
Take one look,
you’ll recognise their great.
Don’t tell me that your doing it hard,
It’s all in your head,
Or get out in the yard.
Dont tell me that its full of hate,
unless your a war child,
hell bent on debate.
Dont tell me,
you dont judge or why,
you still believe,
were all going to die.
Dont tell me,
where your allegiances lay.
Each time your talk,
It’s sounding parlay.
Dont tell me,
to pick up an axe.
Dont tell me,
to grind yours to relax.
I’ve had it up to here.
telling me which way to sear.
I’m tellinf you, while I cry,
There’s others reasons to keep asking why.
You may’ve seen,
and long forgot.
I know its tough,
It’s full of rot.
But whats important,
is you’ll come round.
either way,
we’re claimed by sound.
Now if I was to carry on,
And write a report of all thats wrong.
It’d go on and on and on and on,
Maybe it best – to just write a song.
But peering out,
after staring within.
Being this time,
left without a grin.
It’s only time,
to discuss our sin.
Of keeping on,
the shit storm were in.
Of remembering Gods,
that deserved disipline.