| Failure’s child is weak and mild
|
| Wide-eyed and sad and strange
|
| A moment is the most
|
| She’ll hang her day upon
|
| Others plan a life
|
| Without the faintest hope of change
|
| And belay all her knowledge
|
| Of where hope has gone
|
| In these ugly times
|
| An ugly mind will have its say
|
| And your betters would not
|
| Have it any other way
|
| Oh my eyes
|
| For the sins I may not shed
|
| Burn like coals inside my head
|
| Smoldering black and flaming red
|
| Oh my eyes
|
| For the sins I may not shed
|
| Burn like coals inside my head
|
| Smoldering black and flaming red
|
| Reconciled and pacified
|
| By bread and circus clowns
|
| Who keep you all in stitches
|
| As they keep you down
|
| Dust yourself down
|
| Tell me what on earth
|
| The fuss was for
|
| 'Cause what you’ve seen is nothing
|
| To what’s still in store
|
| In these ugly times
|
| An ugly mind will have its say
|
| And your betters would not
|
| Have it any other way
|
| Oh my eyes
|
| For the sins I may not shed
|
| Burn like coals inside my head
|
| Smoldering black and flaming red
|
| Oh my eyes
|
| For the sins I may not shed
|
| Burn like coals Inside my head
|
| Smoldering black And flaming red
|
| Oh my eyes
|
| For the sins I may not shed
|
| Burn like coals inside my head
|
| Smoldering black and flaming red |