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Days into weeks of Sunday afternoons |
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Nothing much for us to say nothing real for us to do |
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Just watch the carousel go round and round in endless circles |
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in the pupil of the Deadeye until you just feel numb |
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It's virtual Jerusalem. There's not much trouble anymore |
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it's mostly the blissed-out stuff that people really go for |
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and the juggernaut tyranny of oblivion 4/4 |
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Double, triple bluff and then back on itself |
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a world of ironies and tribute bands, everything downsized |
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I don't know where it was but I swear I've heard that song |
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it was a century of answers and all of them have been wrong. |
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Wake me in a thousand years |
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Sorry little island, you look better in the rain |
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You looked more honest in blue or something we can't see through |
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and out across the world I see four billion claims |
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and all of them have faces and all of them have names |
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Enough. Wake me in a thousand years |
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The Prozac dawn opens milky white |
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I don't remember what it was I got so passionate about |
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It's all now digitally synthesised, seduced, stainless |
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the bad smell of poverty disguised, deodorised |
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There's just the scent of money and Privilege still intact |
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A century of madness put to sleep to start over again |
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Here comes the Presidential train. |
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We looked into the crystal and we felt the Fear |
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but it's already here, it's already too late |
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We're learning to love the things that we hate |
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We're learning to love the things that we hate |
