These are not dispassionate words of the cool
The headline still rules the editor's a fool
Shall we douse out the flames or will everybody fuse
And leave us standing here tomorrow
I heard a calling out, a cry from the heart
From the towns of cement and no beauty
A whisper it turned howl, man he didn't know
He was standing waiting for you tomorrow.
Nothing's left nothing's found there must be some common ground
I could never figure the calendar's flow
Nor can I work out how the wild wind blows
But I'm ready from within and we're starting to go
Away from the place of no tomorrow
Oh the wrecking fields are a terrible place,
With a sulphurous smell and a frightening pace
And the hooks go in early and the critic is king
And it's hard to stay human and stand in the ring
There's no time to be absent, a clown or a fool
While shylock is smiling we're loaded like mules
If we surrender ourselves to industrial rules
We'll wake up in the wreckage of tomorrow.
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