12-02-2014, 11:15 PM
No John, or David, Pete or Mat will bring Mohammed down.
A call, a cry, a father’s name; a million heads turn round.
Though saints infest the west the east protects its sneaking thief;
steals thinking sons from thoughtful life,
named in good faith to limit strife...
all synonyms for grief.
A century, millennium; time all but bombed by history.
The curse of being son of man eats hearts and souls; a mystery
made secret by your place of birth, unsure of what life means,
the young treat death as blessed demise
to trade for early paradise;
and everlasting dreams.
Love if you can for gods are strange, and do not love you back.
Why do we mortals fight their fights, in holy lands, in black Iraq,
in sunlit places, made for peace? They kill us with commands
to maim, to glorify "our" lord.
Oh how we play, on things absurd,
right into hell’s hands.
Original
A call, a cry, a father’s name; a million heads turn round.
No John, or David, Pete or Mat will bring Mohammed down.
Though saints infest the west the east protects its sneaking thief;
steals thinking sons from thoughtful life,
named in good faith to limit strife...
all synonyms for grief.
A century, millennium; time all but bombed by history.
The curse of being son of man eats hearts and souls; a mystery
made secret by your place of birth, unsure of what life means,
the young treat death as blessed demise
to trade for early paradise;
and everlasting dreams.
Love if you can, for gods are strange, and will not love you back.
Why else mortals fight their fights, in holy lands, in black Iraq,
in sunlit places, made for peace? They kill us with commands
to maim, to glorify the lord.
Oh, how we play on things absurd
right into hell’s hands.
A call, a cry, a father’s name; a million heads turn round.
Though saints infest the west the east protects its sneaking thief;
steals thinking sons from thoughtful life,
named in good faith to limit strife...
all synonyms for grief.
A century, millennium; time all but bombed by history.
The curse of being son of man eats hearts and souls; a mystery
made secret by your place of birth, unsure of what life means,
the young treat death as blessed demise
to trade for early paradise;
and everlasting dreams.
Love if you can for gods are strange, and do not love you back.
Why do we mortals fight their fights, in holy lands, in black Iraq,
in sunlit places, made for peace? They kill us with commands
to maim, to glorify "our" lord.
Oh how we play, on things absurd,
right into hell’s hands.
Original
A call, a cry, a father’s name; a million heads turn round.
No John, or David, Pete or Mat will bring Mohammed down.
Though saints infest the west the east protects its sneaking thief;
steals thinking sons from thoughtful life,
named in good faith to limit strife...
all synonyms for grief.
A century, millennium; time all but bombed by history.
The curse of being son of man eats hearts and souls; a mystery
made secret by your place of birth, unsure of what life means,
the young treat death as blessed demise
to trade for early paradise;
and everlasting dreams.
Love if you can, for gods are strange, and will not love you back.
Why else mortals fight their fights, in holy lands, in black Iraq,
in sunlit places, made for peace? They kill us with commands
to maim, to glorify the lord.
Oh, how we play on things absurd
right into hell’s hands.