The wall on which the prophet wrote
Is cracking at the seams.
Upon the instruments of death
The sunlight brightly gleams.
When every man is torn apart
With nightmares and with dreams,
Will noone lay the laurel wreath
When silence drowns the screams.
Confusion will be my epitaph,
As I crawl a cracked and broken path.
If we make it, we can all sit back and laugh.
But I fear tomorrow I’ll be crying.
Between the iron gates of fate
The seeds of time were sown,
And watered by the deeds of those
Who know and who are known.
Knowledge is a deadly friend
If noone sets the rules.
The fate of all mankind I fear
Is in the hands of fools.
Confusion will be my epitaph,
As I crawl a cracked and broken path.
If we make it, we can all sit back and laugh.
But I fear tomorrow I’ll be crying.
Yes, I fear tomorrow I’ll be crying.
Crying…
an old grey dog 