The dust and the mess of our mornings, promise that we'll never quit.
So drunk, though our hands surely woven, entire fleets of staggering ships.
Now our ships line the floors of the ocean, and the ocean's breaching the ridge.
And the terrified dreams of our wanderings that once lit our way are now hid...
We want punks in the palace -- 'cause punks got the loveliest dreams,
And our gang is liquored and lovely, and smart and sweet and lean,
And burn with a curious flame, that spits and kicks and shines,
And trumpets the labour of waking and trying...
There ain't none -- sometimes there is -- banged and bitter but cling to it,
Power's the province of miserable pricks, there ain't none, but sometimes there is.
Policemen in parallel lines,
Blind blind blind.
The broken bones of quivering pines, while empty waters rise,
May the light of our striving still shine,
Blind blind blind.
May the light of our striving still shine,
May the light of our striving still shine.
Love the horse or leave the horse,
Love the horse or leave the horse,
Lover oh lover... goddamn you lover,
Some hearts are true.
Ahoy! Ye bland plump boys, go tear wings for vainful gain.
Our homemade choirs, like forest fires, hiss beneath golden rain,
And slip the leash and the chain, and slip the leash and the chain,
'Cause some hearts are true,
But some hearts aren't hardly true,
But some hearts are true.
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