by: George Michael

These are the days of the open hand;
They might just be the last.
Look around, now.
These are the days of the beggers, and the choosers.

This is the year of the hungry man,
whose place is in the past.
Hand in hand with ignorance
and legitimate excuses.

The rich declare themselves poor,
and most of us are not sure
if we have too much,
but we�ll take our chances
�cause God�s stopped keeping score.
I guess somewhere along the way,
He must have let us all out to play;
turned his back and all God�s children
crept out the back door.

It�s hard to love; there�s so much to hate.
Hanging on to hope
when there is no hope to speak of.
And the wounded skies above, say it�s much too much too late.
Well maybe we should all be praying for time.

These are the days of the empty hand.
Oh you hold on to what you can.
And charity is a coat you wear, twice a year.

This is the year of the guilty man;
the year television takes the stand.
And you find that what was over there, is over here!

So you scream from behind your door;
and say �what�s mine is mine, and not yours.
I may have too much, but I�ll take my chances
�cause God�s stopped keeping score.�
And you cling to the things they sold you.
Did you cover your eyes when they told you
that He can�t come back,
�cause he has no children, to come back for.

And it�s hard to love�there�s so much to hate.
Hanging on to hope, when there is no hope to speak of.
And the wounded skies above, say it�s much too much too late.
So maybe we should all be praying for time.

by: George Michael and silver

These are the people on the Lawn,
can you believe they made it into the song?
Look around, now,
You can see they�re a bunch of loosers.

This is the year you�ll fall in love with Doyle.
Don�t deny it, you know you will.
So enough with
your pitiful excuses!

And you�ll declare yourself poor,
and most of us are not sure
if we�ll see you this month,
But we have no choices,
�cause Stu stopped keeping score.
I guess somewhere along the way
he must have spent all that time to play
Diablo Two, and of all that run-time,
there is no more.

And it�s hard to love; there�s so much to hate.
When Mum�s on the phone, and she just won�t get the farque off.
And beyond the ThiRd PaRTies, and fear of the microwave
you�re really just praying for run-time.

This is the year of that old coot
who makes you write short tutes.
And punctuality is a clock kept there, under your chair.

These are the days of the major lag,
and when the book vanished from your bag.
Look around, now
You�ll find that it was here, but now it�s there!

So you scream from behind your door,
and say �what�s mine is mine, and not yours,
�cause we had enough, but you took your chances
and didn�t keep proper score!�
And you cling to the time they sold you;
don�t you hate those calls when they boot you?
And you can�t come back
�cause you have no run-time, to come back for.

And you try to run, but you know you�re late...
hanging on to hope
when there is no hope to speak of.
And the guy who drives the bus, says �it�s much too much too late�
And all along you�re just praying for run-time.