All the Years 'Round Lyrics
| Song | All the Years 'Round |
| Artist | Amon Düül |
| Album | Carnival in Babylon |
| Download | Image LRC TXT |
| 作词 : Knaup, Rogner, Weinzierl | |
| At first I saw them | |
| In the bright morning light | |
| A milestone on their shoulders | |
| A horse at their side | |
| A horse they came over | |
| From the land of human rights | |
| At the corner they were waiting | |
| For a winner of their size | |
| Nut the managers were taking over | |
| The profession of disguise | |
| And they went into a rainbow | |
| And they lived there for many years | |
| Till one day they tried to go | |
| But burning was their gear | |
| Are you waiting for the take-off | |
| Are you waiting for the show | |
| No winner will be coming | |
| You really should know | |
| Neo-Nazi doom advisors sticking in the mud | |
| While Hindustanian horses refuse a haircut | |
| Windswept children running wild on the land | |
| Lonely tele-typers ticking in Tschaikowsky's tent | |
| Pig-pink-coloured ministers are ready to drop | |
| They cut down all the flowers on the way to the top | |
| While frogmen encircle the Zig-Zag Cinema | |
| And salvation's sisters enter the Turkish Opera | |
| Are you waiting for the take-off | |
| Are you waiting for the show | |
| No winner will be coming | |
| You really should know | |
| Pudding-face publicity promoters call | |
| For a sign on the invisible wall | |
| While prophets drive past on compressed air | |
| And caravans of cameras do not care | |
| The boomerang battery bands-man on his sphinx-like bike | |
| Is mostly from Saturday to Sunday on strike | |
| While formulas go to pieces close to the ground | |
| On their way down the hill all the years 'round | |
| Later I saw them | |
| In a rusty limousine | |
| A guitar on their shoulder | |
| To leave the golden mean | |
| Where the cleric is a clown | |
| And the colours are clean | |
| At the circus they were waiting | |
| For a splendid slot machine | |
| Which could turn wine into water | |
| And reality into a dream |
| zuo ci : Knaup, Rogner, Weinzierl | |
| At first I saw them | |
| In the bright morning light | |
| A milestone on their shoulders | |
| A horse at their side | |
| A horse they came over | |
| From the land of human rights | |
| At the corner they were waiting | |
| For a winner of their size | |
| Nut the managers were taking over | |
| The profession of disguise | |
| And they went into a rainbow | |
| And they lived there for many years | |
| Till one day they tried to go | |
| But burning was their gear | |
| Are you waiting for the takeoff | |
| Are you waiting for the show | |
| No winner will be coming | |
| You really should know | |
| NeoNazi doom advisors sticking in the mud | |
| While Hindustanian horses refuse a haircut | |
| Windswept children running wild on the land | |
| Lonely teletypers ticking in Tschaikowsky' s tent | |
| Pigpinkcoloured ministers are ready to drop | |
| They cut down all the flowers on the way to the top | |
| While frogmen encircle the ZigZag Cinema | |
| And salvation' s sisters enter the Turkish Opera | |
| Are you waiting for the takeoff | |
| Are you waiting for the show | |
| No winner will be coming | |
| You really should know | |
| Puddingface publicity promoters call | |
| For a sign on the invisible wall | |
| While prophets drive past on compressed air | |
| And caravans of cameras do not care | |
| The boomerang battery bandsman on his sphinxlike bike | |
| Is mostly from Saturday to Sunday on strike | |
| While formulas go to pieces close to the ground | |
| On their way down the hill all the years ' round | |
| Later I saw them | |
| In a rusty limousine | |
| A guitar on their shoulder | |
| To leave the golden mean | |
| Where the cleric is a clown | |
| And the colours are clean | |
| At the circus they were waiting | |
| For a splendid slot machine | |
| Which could turn wine into water | |
| And reality into a dream |
| zuò cí : Knaup, Rogner, Weinzierl | |
| At first I saw them | |
| In the bright morning light | |
| A milestone on their shoulders | |
| A horse at their side | |
| A horse they came over | |
| From the land of human rights | |
| At the corner they were waiting | |
| For a winner of their size | |
| Nut the managers were taking over | |
| The profession of disguise | |
| And they went into a rainbow | |
| And they lived there for many years | |
| Till one day they tried to go | |
| But burning was their gear | |
| Are you waiting for the takeoff | |
| Are you waiting for the show | |
| No winner will be coming | |
| You really should know | |
| NeoNazi doom advisors sticking in the mud | |
| While Hindustanian horses refuse a haircut | |
| Windswept children running wild on the land | |
| Lonely teletypers ticking in Tschaikowsky' s tent | |
| Pigpinkcoloured ministers are ready to drop | |
| They cut down all the flowers on the way to the top | |
| While frogmen encircle the ZigZag Cinema | |
| And salvation' s sisters enter the Turkish Opera | |
| Are you waiting for the takeoff | |
| Are you waiting for the show | |
| No winner will be coming | |
| You really should know | |
| Puddingface publicity promoters call | |
| For a sign on the invisible wall | |
| While prophets drive past on compressed air | |
| And caravans of cameras do not care | |
| The boomerang battery bandsman on his sphinxlike bike | |
| Is mostly from Saturday to Sunday on strike | |
| While formulas go to pieces close to the ground | |
| On their way down the hill all the years ' round | |
| Later I saw them | |
| In a rusty limousine | |
| A guitar on their shoulder | |
| To leave the golden mean | |
| Where the cleric is a clown | |
| And the colours are clean | |
| At the circus they were waiting | |
| For a splendid slot machine | |
| Which could turn wine into water | |
| And reality into a dream |
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