|
I looked over my shoulder but not for too long, |
|
It's no place to look if you're writing a song, |
|
Some songs grow ancient and live through the years, |
|
While others die off and dry up like tears. |
|
You open the cloak and lift up a veil, |
|
The hammer is raised to drive home a nail, |
|
The flesh is torn open, the bone is revealed, |
|
Wounds that fester seldom get healed. |
|
Songs written for love and written for gain, |
|
Some make you laugh, soothe a bad pain, |
|
Songs have a heart, a body, a soul, |
|
You lay one to rest and another song is born. |
|
While we rescue banks and Royal Kilmanham Halls, |
|
Hell on this earth means nothing at all, |
|
My hands are all withered and I cannot breathe, |
|
The nightmare of indifference to suffering and need. |
|
Songs written for love and written for gain, |
|
Some make you laugh, soothe a bad pain, |
|
Songs have a heart, a body, a soul, |
|
You lay one to rest and another song is born. |
|
The elite on the plinth maintain status quo, |
|
Marble and granite their movements are slow, |
|
The silk stays unruffled as the eyebrows are raised, |
|
Satin and mohair the good lord be praised. |
|
Songs written for love and written for gain, |
|
Some make you laugh, soothe a bad pain, |
|
Songs have a heart, a body, a soul, |
|
You lay one to rest and another song is born. |
