Слова:
Million Dead Other

It's very late and I'm staring at my first guitar and having doubts about my paramour. I'm kept awake by the whitest noise, the frail voice that made

I am the small town linesman And you'll find me out here on the line. Searching ceaselessly to simply Find a place i can call mine. Every corner of this

The maternity ward Where I was born Was knocked down in the first gulf war To build an airport For housing Allied steel, For upholding ideals, Like a

off, I don't want to Follow time tables Or tracks. I will cut New paths through Topsoil and tarmac. Old hands, new power, More miles per hour- Strange light in the ancient mills

Father my father, well what have you left for me? What am I to make of this convoluted legacy? You raised me, ingrained me Led me to believe that the

If every child chased dreams of societal reorganization in place of sweet wrappers and escape Then we would see Mr. Cadbury's enlightened industrialism

It's just a song Just another generic mid-paced foot-tapper Just a conservative assembly of melody and basic rhythm. Four-on-the-floor A key change

Well you can tell by the way I move my feet that I'm a genuine insurrectionary It's a kind of nervous shuffle that contrasts so well with Bolshevik bravado

"You" a?? another tired second-person address, words written hastily and under duress. I'm cold and holed up in the back of the van, devoid of eloquence