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.
Sorry no Chords at present.