| 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
|
| 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 |