| Turn you back on London’s bitter pride
|
| In melancholic isolation
|
| Force-feed yourself sentimentality
|
| With golden age mythology
|
| A feudal lord doesn’t live no more
|
| But in the night, the ravens call
|
| False memories, fake history
|
| Next you’ll talk of racial purity
|
| When the nightingale sings
|
| The knights around all cleave close
|
| You were abiding
|
| Well your name is not
|
| Always one, simple relations
|
| Walk away from anonymity
|
| The fedual lords are rutheless no more
|
| But in the night the ravens call
|
| (Force-feed yourself sentimentality)
|
| False memories, fake history
|
| False memories
|
| Fake history
|
| Next you’ll talk of racial purity
|
| When the nightingale sings
|
| The knights around all cleave close
|
| You were abiding
|
| Well your name is not
|
| (Force-feed yourself sentimentality)
|
| When the nightingale sings
|
| The knights around all cleave close
|
| You were abiding
|
| Well your name is not |