(Sullivan/M Dean/Monger) 2019
From the concrete cities to the wide open spaces
Everything in tension and waiting
There’s a little gust of wind and then stillness
A little creak of the timbers and then silence
We love this gallows humour but there must be a gallows
And a masked pied piper that everybody follows
We will grow weary of ourselves and we will dream a king
Then we will bury ourselves
Trouble always begins with the naming of things
Like gods and desires and lines in the sand
And now all the sense of scale is gone and the splinters think they’re trees
And the stones believe they’re mountains and the rivers think they’re seas
And we all gaze down like little gods, our feathers think they’re wings
And the glass believes it’s diamond and the courtiers think they’re kings
And the more of this we take inside, the stupider we become
The rose and glow of approaching fire mistaken for the rising sun
I am the master of nothing, repeat after me
I am the master of nothing
I’ve always tried never to press too hard, I never wanted to leave a mark
I’m good with disappearing like I was never there
Now all the sense of scale is gone and the splinters think they’re trees
And the stones believe they’re mountains and the rivers think they’re seas
And we all gaze down like little gods, our feathers think they’re wings
And the glass believes it’s diamond and the courtiers think they’re kings
And the more of this we onboard, the stupider we become
The rose and glow of approaching fire mistaken for the rising sun
So let’s all go home now, look ourselves in the mirror
Throw our heads back and laugh.
Published by PRS/MCPS
