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People often now stand and stare and wonder who could they be, |
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That would leave such a lasting tribute to their lives. |
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But they never look down in the undergrowth at the pile of broken stone. |
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Or spare a thought for all the young men who have died. |
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Ruined Chapels and neglected graves have masked the truth for years |
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Only mangled limbs bear witness to their pain. |
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Their lord and masters pampered lives are marked by a granite tomb, |
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But in death the bones will always look the same. |
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The hooves of black plumed horses are silent on the cobbled streets |
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And a rusty lock secures the cemetery gates. |
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The age is long since dead and gone when they ruled in our domain |
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All that's left are these sentinels of hate. |
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Stone and marble pillars reaching higher, pointing ever upward to the skies |
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Looking down on the rank and file beneath them in the cold dark ground, |
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As they'd done throughout their selfish lives, all through there lives! |
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Evening falls to cast shadows ever longer, to slowly move across each soul again. |
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As if to say look up to me I'm still your master as I'll always be |
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Even in death our roles are still the same, they haven't changed! |
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Ashes down to ashes, dust down to dust, |
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It was the children born with a silver spoon and dealt the kind hand of fate, |
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Created these monoliths to power, built these sentinels of hate! |
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Their pious names cut deep into the marble, clear for all to see down though the years. |
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The means to their success lies buried in crumbling vaults with broken headstones, |
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No reflection left of all the tears, shed down the years. |
