Lazy summer sun, through wheatfields wending,
Ending the night.
Sleepy summer stars, in velvet paling,
Hailing the light.
But on the freshly rolled and coffeed air there's a roar:
We're living in the sounds of war.
Tanks go rumbling by,
Overhead jet fighters fly,
Young men wear uniform - they wonder why,
So do I.
But our statesmen say
Things have got to be that way,
It's the only way to live in peace,
Is what they believe.
I believe:
We're living in the sounds of war.
In the peacock sky a lark is singing,
Winging above.
On the castled hill, grapes are growing,
Flowing with love.
But over the silence of the foxy wood comes a roar:
We're living in the sounds of war.
Tanks go rumbling by,
Overhead jet fighters fly,
Young men wear uniform - they wonder why,
So do I.
But our statesmen say
Things have got to be that way,
It's the only way to live in peace,
Is what they believe.
I believe:
We're living in the sounds of war.
In the bottled room, the rhymer struggles,
Juggles his themes.
In the saffron sun, Vincent dozes, (*)
Cozy in dreams. (**)
Then with a cry he wakes.
They've woke him up with their roar:
He's living in the sounds of war.
Ending the night.
Sleepy summer stars, in velvet paling,
Hailing the light.
But on the freshly rolled and coffeed air there's a roar:
We're living in the sounds of war.
Tanks go rumbling by,
Overhead jet fighters fly,
Young men wear uniform - they wonder why,
So do I.
But our statesmen say
Things have got to be that way,
It's the only way to live in peace,
Is what they believe.
I believe:
We're living in the sounds of war.
In the peacock sky a lark is singing,
Winging above.
On the castled hill, grapes are growing,
Flowing with love.
But over the silence of the foxy wood comes a roar:
We're living in the sounds of war.
Tanks go rumbling by,
Overhead jet fighters fly,
Young men wear uniform - they wonder why,
So do I.
But our statesmen say
Things have got to be that way,
It's the only way to live in peace,
Is what they believe.
I believe:
We're living in the sounds of war.
In the bottled room, the rhymer struggles,
Juggles his themes.
In the saffron sun, Vincent dozes, (*)
Cozy in dreams. (**)
Then with a cry he wakes.
They've woke him up with their roar:
He's living in the sounds of war.
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