Lyrics
Living In The Past Happy and I'm smiling, walk a mile to drink your water. You know I'd love to love you, and above you there's no other. We'll go walking out while others shout of war's disaster. Oh, we won't give in, let's go living in the past. Once I used to join in, every boy and girl was my friend. Now there's revolution, but they don't know what they're fighting. Let us close out eyes; outside their lives go on much faster. Oh, we won't give in, we'll keep living in the past. Oh, we won't give in, let's go living in the past. Oh, no, no, we won't give in, let's go living in the past. Aqualung Sitting on a park bench eyeing little girls with bad intent. Snot running down his nose,<BR<> greasy fingers smearing shabby clothes. Hey, Aqualung... Drying in the cold sun, watching as the frilly panties run. Hey, Aqualung... Feeling like a dead duck spitting out pieces of his broken luck. Oh, Aqualung... Sun streaking cold an old man wandering lonely. Taking time the only way he knows. Leg hurting bad, as he bends to pick a dog-end. He goes down to the bog and warms his feet. Feeling alone; the army's up the road, salvation a la mode and a cup of tea. Aqualung, my friend, don't you start away uneasy. You poor old sod, you see, it's only me. Too Old to Rock 'n' Roll: Too Young to Die The old Rocker wore his hair too long, wore his trouser cuffs too tight. Unfashionable to the end, drank his ale too light. Death's head belt buckle, yesterday's dreams, the transport caf' prophet of doom. Ringing no change in his double-sewn seams, in his post-war-babe gloom. Now he's too old to Rock 'n' Roll, but he's too young to die. Yes, he's too old to Rock 'n' Roll, but he's too young to die. He once owned a Harley Davidson and a Triumph Bonneville. Counted his friends in burned-out spark plugs; prays that he always will. But he's the last of the blue blood greaser boys, and all his mates are doing time: married with three kids up by the ring road - sold their souls straight down the line. And some of them own little sports cars and meet at the tennis club dos. For drinks on a Sunday, work on Monday. They've thrown away their blue suede shoes. Now they're too old to Rock 'n' Roll, and they're too young to die. Oh yes, they're too old to Rock 'n' Roll, and they're too young to die. So the old Rocker gets out his bike to make a ton before he takes his leave. Up on the A1 by Scotch Corner, just like it used to be. And as he flies, tears in his eyes, his wind-whipped words echo the final take, and he hits the trunk road doing around 120 with no room left to brake. And he was too old to Rock 'n' Roll, and he was too young to die. And he was too old to Rock 'n' Roll, and he was too young to die. No, you're never too old to Rock 'n' Roll if you're too young to die. No, you're never too old to Rock 'n' Roll if you're too young to die. No, you're never too old to Rock 'n' Roll but you're too young to die. Locomotive Breath In the shuffling madess of the locomotive breath, runs the all-time loser, headlong to his death. Oh, he feels the piston scraping - steam breaking on his brow. Old Charlie stole the handle and the train won't stop going - no way to slow down. He sees his children jumping off at the stations -- one by one. His woman and his best friend, in bed and having fun. Oh, he's crawling down the corridor on his hands and knees, Old Charlie stole the handle and the train it won't stop going - He hears the silence howling, catches angels as they fall. And the all-time winner has got him by the balls. Oh, he picks up Gideon's Bible, open at page one. Oh, Old Charlie stole the handle and the train won't stop going - no way to slow down. No way to slow down. No way to slow down. No way to slow down. No way to slow down. No way to slow down. Skating Away On The Thin Ice Of The New Day Meanwhile back in the year One, when you belonged to no-one, you didn't stand a chance son, if your pants were undone. 'Cause you were bred for humanity and sold to society. One day you'll wake up in the Present Day, a million generations removed from expectations of being who you really want to be. Skating away, skating away, skating away on the thin ice of the New Day. So as you push off from the shore, won't you turn your head once more, and make your peace with everyone? For those who choose to stay, will live just one more day, to do the things they should have done. And as you cross the wilderness, spinning in your emptiness, you feel you have to pray. Looking for a sign that the Universal Mind has written you into the Passion Play. Skating away, skating away, skating away on the thin ice of the New Day. And as you cross the circle line, well, the ice-wall creaks behind - you're a rabbit on the run. And the silver splinters fly in the corner of your eye, shining in the setting sun. Well, do you ever get the feeling that the story's too damn real and in the present tense? Or that everybody's on the stage, and it seems like you're the only person sitting in the audience? Skating away, skating away, skating away on the thin ice of the New Day. Skating away, skating away, skating away... Bungle in the Jungle Walking through forests of palm tree apartments, scoff at the monkeys who live in their dark tents down by the waterhole, drunk every Friday, eating their nuts, saving their raisins for Sunday. Lions and tigers who wait in the shadows, they're fast but they're lazy, and sleep in green meadows. Well, let's bungle in the jungle, well, that's all right by me, yes. I'm a tiger when I want love, but I'm a snake if we disagree. Just say a word and the boys will be right there, with claws at your back to send a chill through the night air. Is it so frightening to have me at your shoulder? Thunder and lightning couldn't be bolder. I'll write on your tombstone, "I thank you for dinner.'' This game that we animals play is a winner. Well, let's bungle in the jungle, well, that's all right by me, yes. I'm a tiger when I want love, but I'm a snake if we disagree. The rivers are full of crocodile nasties, and He who made kittens put snakes in the grass. He's a lover of life but a player of pawns, yes, the King on His sunset lies waiting for dawn to light up His Jungle as play is resumed. The monkeys seem willing to strike up the tune. Well, let's bungle in the jungle, well, that's all right by me, yes. I'm a tiger when I want love, but I'm a snake if we disagree. Yes, let's bungle in the jungle, well, that's all right by me, yes. I'm a tiger when I want love, but I'm a snake if we disagree. Sweet Dream You'll hear me calling in your sweet dream, can't hear your daddy's warning cry. You're going back to be all the things you want to be, while in sweet dreams you softly sigh. You hear my voice is calling to be mine again, live the rest of your life in a day. Get out and get what you can while your mummy's at home a-sleeping. No time to understand, `cause they've lost what they thought they were keeping. No one can see us in your sweet dream. Don't hear you leave to start the car. All wrapped up tightly in the coat you borrowed from me. Your place of resting is not far. You'll hear my voice is calling to be mine again, live the rest of your life in a day. Get out and get what you can while your mummy's at home a-sleeping. No time to understand, `cause they've lost what they thought they were keeping. Get out and get what you can while your mummy's at home a-sleeping. No time to understand, `cause they've lost what they thought they were keeping. Songs From The Wood Let me bring you songs from the wood: to make you feel much better than you could know. Dust you down from tip to toe. (Dust you down from tip to toe.) Show you how the garden grows. (Show you how the garden grows.) Hold you steady as you go. (Hold you steady as you go.) Join the chorus if you can; it'll make of you an honest man. Let me bring you love from the fields, poppies red and roses filled with summer rain. To heal the wound and still the pain that threatens again and again, as you drag down every lover's lane. Life's long celebration's here. I'll toast you all in penny cheer. Let me bring you all things refined: Ggalliards and Lute songs served in chilling ale. Greetings, well met-fellow, hail! I am the wind to fill your sail. I am the cross to take your nail. A singer of these ageless times, With kitchen prose and gutter rhymes. Songs from the wood make you feel much better. Songs from the wood make you feel much better. Songs from the wood. Songs from the wood. Let me bring you love from the fields, poppies red and roses filled with summer rain. To heal the wound and still the pain that threatens again and again, as you drag down every lover's lane. Life's long celebration's here. I'll toast you all in penny cheer. Songs from the wood make you feel much better. Songs from the wood make you feel much better. Thick As A Brick (Long version, not on Orig. masters) Really don't mind if you sit this one out. My words but a whisper, your deafness a SHOUT. I may make you feel but I can't make you think. Your sperm's in the gutter; your love's in the sink. So you ride yourselves over the fields and you make all your animal deals and your wise men don't know how it feels to be thick as a brick. And the sand-castle virtues are all swept away; in the tidal destruction, the moral melee. The elastic retreat rings the close of play as the last wave uncovers the newfangled way. But your new shoes are worn at the heels and your suntan does rapidly peel and your wise men don't know how it feels to be thick as a brick. And the love that I feel is so far away; I'm a bad dream that I just had today, and you shake your head and say it's a shame. Spin me back down the years and the days of my youth. Draw the lace and black curtains and shut out the whole truth. Spin me down the long ages; let them sing the song. See there! A son is born, and we pronounce him fit to fight. There are black-heads on his shoulders, and he pees himself in the night. We'll make a man of him, put him to trade, teach him to play Monopoly and to sing in the rain. The Poet and the painter casting shadows on the water as the sun plays on the infantry returning from the sea. The do-er and the thinker; no allowance for the other, as the failing light illuminates the mercenary's creed. The home fire burning; the kettle almost boiling, but the master of the house is far away. The horses stamping, their warm breath clouding in the sharp and frosty morning of the day. And the poet lifts his pen while the soldier sheaths his sword. And the youngest of the family is moving with authority. A-building castles by the sea, he dares the tardy tide to wash them all aside. The cattle quietly grazing at the grass down by the river where the swelling mountain water moves onward to the sea; the builder of the castles renews the age-old purpose, and contemplates the milking girl whose offer is his need. The young men of the household have all gone into service and are not to be expected for a year. The innocent young master - thoughts moving ever faster - has formed the plan to change the man he seems. And the poet sheaths his pen while the soldier lifts his sword. And the oldest of the family is moving with authority. A-coming from across the sea, he challenges the son who puts him to the run. What do you do when the old man's gone - do you want to be him? And your real self sings the song. Do you want to free him? No one to help you get up steam and the whirlpool turns you way off-beam. LATER. I've come down from the upper class to mend your rotten ways. My father was a man-of-power whom everyone obeyed. So come on all you criminals! I've got to put you straight, just like I did with my old man twenty years too late. Your bread and water's going cold. Your hair is short and neat. I'll judge you all and make damn sure that no one judges me. You curl your toes in fun as you smile at everyone, you meet the stares, you're unaware that your doings aren't done. And you laugh most ruthlessly as you tell us what not to be. But how are we supposed to see where we should run? I see you shuffle in the courtroom with your rings upon your fingers and your downy little sidies and your silver-buckle shoes. Playing at the hard case, you follow the example of the comic-paper idol who lets you bend the rules. So! Come on ye childhood heroes! Won't you rise up from the pages of your comic-books, your super crooks, and show us all the way? Well! Make your will and testament. Won't you? Join your local government. We'll have Superman for president, let Robin save the day. You put your bet on number one and it comes up every time. The other kids have all backed down and they put you first in line. And so you finally ask yourself just how big you are, and you take your place in a wiser world of bigger motor cars. And you wonder who to call on. So! Where the hell was Biggles when you needed him last Saturday? And where are all the sportsmen who always pull you though? They're all resting down in Cornwall writing up their memoirs for a paper-back edition of the Boy Scout Manual. LATER. See there! A man is born and we pronounce him fit for peace. There's a load lifted from his shoulders, with the discovery of his disease. We'll take the child from him - put it to the test. Teach it to be a wise man - how to fool the rest. (Spoken) We will be geared to the average rather than the exceptional. God is an overwhelming responsibility. We walked through the maternity ward and saw 218 babies wearing nylons. It says here that cats are on the upgrade. Upgrade? Hipgrave. Oh, Mac. LATER In the clear white circles of morning wonder, I take my place with the lord of the hills. And the blue-eyed soldiers stand slightly discoloured (in neat little rows) sporting canvas frills. With their jock-straps pinching, they slouch to attention, whilst queueing for sarnies at the office canteen. Saying, "How's your granny and good old Ernie?" "He coughed up a tenner on a premium bond win." The legends (worded in the ancient tribal hymn) lie cradled in the seagull's call. And all the promises they made are ground beneath the sadist's fall. The poet and the wise man stand behind the gun, behind the gun, signal for the crack of dawn. Light the sun. Light the sun. Do you believe in the day? Do you? Believe in the day! The Dawn Creation of the Kings has begun, has begun. Soft Venus (lonely maiden) brings the ageless one, the ageless one. Do you believe in the day? Do you believe in the day? The fading hero has returned to the night, to the night, and fully pregnant with the day. Wise men endorse the poet's sight. Do you believe in the day? Do you? Believe in the day! Let me tell you the tales of your life, of your love and the cut of the knife. The tireless oppression, the wisdom instilled, the desire to kill or be killed. Well, let me sing of the losers who lie in the street as the last bus goes by. The pavements are empty; the gutters run red - while the fool toasts his god in the sky. So come all ye young men who are building castles! Kindly state the time of the year, and join your voices in a hellish chorus. Mark the precise nature of your fear. Let me help you pick up your dead as the sins of the father are fed with the blood of the fools and the thoughts of the wise and from the pan under your bed. Let me make you a present of song as the wise man breaks wind and is gone, while the fool with the hour-glass is cooking his goose and the nursery rhyme winds along. So! Come all ye young men who are building castles! Kindly state the time of the year, and join your voices in a hellish chorus. Mark the precise nature of your fear. See! The summer lightning casts its bolts upon you and the hour of judgement draweth near. Would you be the fool stood in his suit of armour or the wiser man who rushes clear? So! Come on ye childhood heroes! Won't your rise up from the pages of your comic-books, your super-crooks, and show us all the way? Well! Make your will and testament. Won't you? Join your local government. We'll have Superman for president, let Robin save the day. So! Where the hell was Biggles when you needed him last Saturday? And where are all the sportsmen who always pull you through? They're all resting down in Cornwall writing up their memoirs for a paper-back edition of the Boy Scout Manual. OF COURSE So you ride yourselves over the fields and you make all your animal deals and your wise men don't know how it feels to be thick as a brick. Minstrel In The Gallery The minstrel in the gallery looked down upon the smiling faces. He met the gazes, observed the spaces between the old men's cackle. He brewed a song of love and hatred - oblique suggestions - and he waited. He polarized the pumpkin-eaters, static-humming panel-beaters, freshly day-glow'd factory cheaters (salaried and collar-scrubbing). He titillated men-of-action, belly warming, hands still rubbing on the parts they never mention. He pacified the nappy-suffering, infant-bleating one-line jokers, T.V. documentary makers (overfed and undertakers). Sunday paper backgammon players, family-scarred and women-haters. And he called the band down to the stage, and he looked at all the friends he'd made. The minstrel in the gallery looked down upon the smiling faces. He met the gazes, observed the spaces in between the old men's cackle. And he brewed a song of love and hatred - oblique suggestions, and he waited. He polarized the pumpkin-eaters, static-humming panel-beaters. The minstrel in the gallery looked down on the rabbit-run. And he threw away his looking-glass, and saw his face in everyone. He titillated men-of-action, belly warming, hands still rubbing on the parts they never mention (salaried and collar-scrubbing). He pacified the nappy-suffering, infant-bleating one-line jokers, T.V. documentary makers (overfed and undertakers). Sunday paper backgammon players, family-scarred and women-haters. And then he called the band down to the stage, and he looked at all the friends he'd made. The minstrel in the gallery looked down on the rabbit-run. And he threw away his looking-glass, and saw his face in everyone. The minstrel in the gallery looked down upon the smiling faces. He met the gazes. Life Is A Long Song When you're falling awake and you take stock of the new day, and you hear your voice croak as you choke on what you need to say, well, don't you fret, don't you fear, I will give you good cheer. Life's a long song, Life's a long song, Life's a long song, If you wait then your plate I will fill. As the verses unfold and your soul suffers the long day, and the twelve o'clock gloom spins the room, you struggle on your way. Well, don't you sigh, don't you cry, lick the dust from your eye. Life's a long song, Life's a long song, Life's a long song, We'll meet in the sweet light of dawn. As the Baker Street train spills your pain all over your new dress, and the symphony sounds underground put you under duress, well, don't you squeal as the heel grinds you under the wheels. Life's a long song, Life's a long song, Life's a long song, but the tune ends too soon for us all. But the tune ends too soon for us all.
