Song | Not So Soft |
Artist | Ani DiFranco |
Album | Living in Clip [live] |
Download | Image LRC TXT |
作词 : Difranco | |
in a forest of stone underneath a corporate canopy | |
where the sun rarely filters down | |
the ground is not so soft | |
it is not so soft | |
they build buildings to house people making money | |
or they build buildings to make money housing people | |
it's true, like a lot of things are true | |
foraging from a phone booth on the forest floor | |
that is not so soft | |
i look up, it looks like the builidings are burning | |
but it's just the sun, setting in the windows | |
the solar system calling an end to another business day | |
eternally circling, signalling the rythmic clicking on and off | |
of computers | |
the pulse .. of the american machine | |
the pulse .. that draws death dancing | |
out of anonymous side streets | |
you know, the ones that always get dumped on | |
but never get ploughed | |
it draws death dancing out of little countries | |
with funny languages | |
where the ground is getting harder and it was | |
not that soft before | |
but those who call the shots | |
are never in the line of fire | |
why | |
when there's life for hire out there | |
if the flag of truth were raised | |
we could watch every liar rise to wave it | |
here we learn america like a script | |
playright, birthright - same thing | |
we bring ourselves to the role | |
we're all rehearsing for the presidency | |
i always wanted to be commander in chief | |
of my own one woman army | |
but i can envision the mediocrity of my finest hour | |
it's the failed america in me | |
it's the fear that lives | |
in a forest of stone, underneath the corporate canopy | |
where the sun rarely filters down | |
and the ground | |
is not so soft...... |
zuo ci : Difranco | |
in a forest of stone underneath a corporate canopy | |
where the sun rarely filters down | |
the ground is not so soft | |
it is not so soft | |
they build buildings to house people making money | |
or they build buildings to make money housing people | |
it' s true, like a lot of things are true | |
foraging from a phone booth on the forest floor | |
that is not so soft | |
i look up, it looks like the builidings are burning | |
but it' s just the sun, setting in the windows | |
the solar system calling an end to another business day | |
eternally circling, signalling the rythmic clicking on and off | |
of computers | |
the pulse .. of the american machine | |
the pulse .. that draws death dancing | |
out of anonymous side streets | |
you know, the ones that always get dumped on | |
but never get ploughed | |
it draws death dancing out of little countries | |
with funny languages | |
where the ground is getting harder and it was | |
not that soft before | |
but those who call the shots | |
are never in the line of fire | |
why | |
when there' s life for hire out there | |
if the flag of truth were raised | |
we could watch every liar rise to wave it | |
here we learn america like a script | |
playright, birthright same thing | |
we bring ourselves to the role | |
we' re all rehearsing for the presidency | |
i always wanted to be commander in chief | |
of my own one woman army | |
but i can envision the mediocrity of my finest hour | |
it' s the failed america in me | |
it' s the fear that lives | |
in a forest of stone, underneath the corporate canopy | |
where the sun rarely filters down | |
and the ground | |
is not so soft...... |
zuò cí : Difranco | |
in a forest of stone underneath a corporate canopy | |
where the sun rarely filters down | |
the ground is not so soft | |
it is not so soft | |
they build buildings to house people making money | |
or they build buildings to make money housing people | |
it' s true, like a lot of things are true | |
foraging from a phone booth on the forest floor | |
that is not so soft | |
i look up, it looks like the builidings are burning | |
but it' s just the sun, setting in the windows | |
the solar system calling an end to another business day | |
eternally circling, signalling the rythmic clicking on and off | |
of computers | |
the pulse .. of the american machine | |
the pulse .. that draws death dancing | |
out of anonymous side streets | |
you know, the ones that always get dumped on | |
but never get ploughed | |
it draws death dancing out of little countries | |
with funny languages | |
where the ground is getting harder and it was | |
not that soft before | |
but those who call the shots | |
are never in the line of fire | |
why | |
when there' s life for hire out there | |
if the flag of truth were raised | |
we could watch every liar rise to wave it | |
here we learn america like a script | |
playright, birthright same thing | |
we bring ourselves to the role | |
we' re all rehearsing for the presidency | |
i always wanted to be commander in chief | |
of my own one woman army | |
but i can envision the mediocrity of my finest hour | |
it' s the failed america in me | |
it' s the fear that lives | |
in a forest of stone, underneath the corporate canopy | |
where the sun rarely filters down | |
and the ground | |
is not so soft...... |