Lyrics of a Day
Out of context: Reply #37
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- futurefood2
Terry Scott Taylor, 1984
Hey!
We cannot sense, we cannot know
What they're going through over there
Bodies dropping in the snow
Russians marching everywhere
It's history that cannot be
Felt by tiny souls
Inside this chest beats a plastic heart
And pleasure is it's goalIt's sick, and I got it on my TV
It's sick, when I don't feel a thing
It's sick, and I get a little queasy
When somebody tells me it's only a game (IT'S SICK)The black man, he knows the score
He's tied to shores so strange and foreign
Like bombs of war that scar the western front
A sense of history leaves his heart in ruinsWe cannot sense, we cannot know
What he's going through today
Men still burn crosses on the knoll
And drag his weary soul awayOur trial is which car to buy
Temptation is that extra dessert
In the land of orange juice
You're better off with the right kind of shirtBut take away the naivete
Expose the sources of our fears
We'll run to missiles if we're pushed too far
Proceed to blow it all away!