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