| Brave, bottles crowd the ocean floor
|
| Bound by rot, the scapegoats
|
| Of their salesmen on the shore
|
| Oh, the bastards of our natural war
|
| They may have lost this time
|
| But no one’s keeping score
|
| Well courage straightens up its chin
|
| Burns the maps and runs
|
| With upraised arms into the wind
|
| Oh, and fortune tears it limb from limb
|
| Says «That bed looks warm
|
| But I’m not coming in»
|
| Oh, now charm still spars with misbelief
|
| Till time has rung its bell
|
| And captained one to its knees
|
| Oh, more stubborn than an old oak tree
|
| And when she smiles she shows her teeth
|
| And now havoc wreaks itself to sleep
|
| Plunders tact and pride and sinks
|
| Its roots in far too deep
|
| And in this darkness only hate can see
|
| So keep your fires burning for me
|
| Thick skinned and never growing old
|
| Desire cries and tries to reason with your soul
|
| Saying I know what you need
|
| I could keep you company
|
| Greed grins eagerly
|
| Says it’s goddamn easy being me |