The wall on which the prophets
wrote,
Is cracking at the seams.
Upon the instruments of death,
The sunlight brightly gleams.
When every man is torn apart,
With nightmares and with dreams,
Will no one lay the laurel wreath,
When silence drowns the screams.
Confusion will be my epitaph.
As I crawl a cracked and broken path,
If we make it we can all sit back,
and laugh.
But I fear tomorrow I'll be crying,
Yes I fear tomorrow I'll be crying.
Yes I fear tomorrow I'll be crying!