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There's a smokescreen on the horizon, |
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fireships under sail tonight.... |
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Here's the Armada of Souls, |
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here's the flotilla from God knows where: |
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from gopher-wood to the last of the ironclads |
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in common concert they send up the flares. |
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While we turn and turn around |
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the rocket hits the roof... |
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we never think that we'll get burned, |
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we're fireproof, |
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we think we're fireproof. |
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Keep a stiff upper lip, |
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the band play on |
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through the raising of the toast; |
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the captain's steady |
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at the attention on the bridge |
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it's surface matters |
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that appear to matter most. |
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We watch the galleons run aground, |
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still we stand aloof; |
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we never think that we'll get burned, |
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we think we're fireproof. |
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We think we're fireproof, |
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we never think that we'll get burned; |
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We sail on fireships, |
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we never think, so we'll get burned. |
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Straight for the eye of the hurricane, |
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down to the last eye tooth |
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we never think that we'll get burned, |
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we think we're fireproof. |
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Here's the Armada of light, |
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here's the flotilla, for heaven's sake.... |
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We're sailing under a flag of convenience, |
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casting our messages in bottles in our wake |
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So we turn and turn around |
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the rocket hits the roof... |
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we never think that we'll get burned, |
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we think we're fireproof. |
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We never think that we'll get burned, |
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we think we're fireproof. |
