|
Like confession whispered slowly |
|
Hate's a word that's spoken softly |
|
Horror fills his pretty scrapbook |
|
A massacre won't change his outlook |
|
Oh man of straw |
|
Sheltered in his cut out life style |
|
If time were small he'd be a sundial |
|
Hope wrung dry with values static |
|
'save me', he cries, 'from these fanatics' |
|
Standing lonely trusting no one |
|
In disarray with collar undone |
|
Kicked again he counts his blessings |
|
But with no brain he's always guessing |
|
Standing lonely trusting no one |
|
In disarray with collar undone |
|
Like confession whispered slowly |
|
Hate's a word that's spoken softly |
|
Like confession whispered slowly |
|
Hate's a word that's spoken softly |
|
Standing lonely trusting no one |
|
In disarray with collar undone |
|
Horror fills his pretty scrapbook |
|
But with no brain he's always guessing |
