These are not dispassionate words of the cool
The headline still rules the editoræ ¯ a fool
Shall we douse out the flames or will everybody fuse
And leave us stranded here tomorrow
I heard a calling out, a cry from the heart
From the towns of cement and the beauty
A whisper its turned howl, man he didnæ ° know
He was standing waiting for tomorrow
Nothingæ ¯ left, nothingæ ¯ found, there must be some common ground
I could never figure the calendars flow
Nor can I work out how the wild, wild wind blows
But weæ ®e ready from within and weæ ®e starting to go
Away from the place of no tomorrow
Nothingæ ¯ left, nothingæ ¯ found, there must be some common ground
Nothingæ ¯ left, (???) I see there must be some common ground
Oh the wrecking fields are a terrible place
With a sulphurous smell and a frightening pace
And the Hook goes early and the critic is king
Itæ ¯ hard to stay human and stand in the ring
Thereæ ¯ no time to be absent, a clown or a fool
While Shylock is smiling weæ ®e loaded like mules
If we surrender ourself to industrial rules
Weæ £l wake up in the wreckage of tomorrow
Now
Nothingæ ¯ left, nothingæ ¯ found, there must be some common ground
Nothingæ ¯ left, somethingæ ¯ found, can we see some common ground