2 de novembro de 2009
thick as a brick
Really don't mind if you sit this one out.
My words but a whisper - your deafness a SHOUT.
I may make you feel but I can't make you think.
Your sperm's in the gutter - your love's in the sink.
So you ride yourselves over the fields and
You make all your animal deals and
Your wise men don't know how it feels to be thick as a brick.
And the sand-castle virtues are all swept away in
The tidal destruction
The moral melee.
The elastic retreat rings the close of play
As the last wave uncovers the newfangled way.
But your new shoes are worn at the heels and
Your suntan does rapidly peel and
Your wise men don't know how it feels to be thick as a brick.
And the love that I feel is so far away:
I'm a bad dream that I just had today.
And you shake your head and
Say it's a shame.
Spin me back down the years and the days of my youth.
Draw the lace and black curtains and shut out the whole truth.
Spin me down the long ages: let them sing the song.
See there! A son is born -- and we pronounce him fit to fight.
There are black-heads on his shoulders, and he pees himself in the night.
We'll
Make a man of him
Put him to trade
Teach him
To play Monopoly and
To sing in the rain.
The Poet and the painter casting shadows on the water -
As the sun plays on the infantry returning from the sea.
The do-er and the thinker: no allowance for the other -
As the failing light illuminates the mercenary's creed.
The home fire burning: the kettle almost boiling -
But the master of the house is far away.
The horses stamping - their warm breath clouding
In the sharp and frosty morning of the day.
And the poet lifts his pen while the soldier sheaths his sword.
And the youngest of the family is moving with authority.
Building castles by the sea, he dares the tardy tide to wash them all aside.
Say it's a shame.
Spin me back down the years and the days of my youth.
Draw the lace and black curtains and shut out the whole truth.
Spin me down the long ages: let them sing the song.
See there! A son is born -- and we pronounce him fit to fight.
There are black-heads on his shoulders, and he pees himself in the night.
We'll
Make a man of him
Put him to trade
Teach him
To play Monopoly and
To sing in the rain.
The Poet and the painter casting shadows on the water -
As the sun plays on the infantry returning from the sea.
The do-er and the thinker: no allowance for the other -
As the failing light illuminates the mercenary's creed.
The home fire burning: the kettle almost boiling -
But the master of the house is far away.
The horses stamping - their warm breath clouding
In the sharp and frosty morning of the day.
And the poet lifts his pen while the soldier sheaths his sword.
And the youngest of the family is moving with authority.
Building castles by the sea, he dares the tardy tide to wash them all aside.
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