In and out of the front door, ran twelve back-door angels. Their hair was a golden-brown --- They didn't see me wink my eye. `tis said they put we men
Walking through forests of Palm Tree Apartments Scoff at the monkeys who live in their dark tents Down by the waterhole, drunk every Friday Eating their
Ladies of leisure Oh, with their eyes on the back roads All looking for strangers To whom they extend welcomes With a smile and a glimpse Of pink knees
Brain-storming, habit-forming, battle-warning weary Winsome actor spewing, spineless chilling lines The critics falling over to tell themselves, he's
The wind is on the river And the tide has turned too late So we're sailing for another shore Where some other ladies wait To throw us silken whispers
Over the mountains and under the sky Riding dirty gray horses, go you and I Mating with chance, copulating with mirth The sad glad paymasters, for what
Meanwhile back in the year one When you belonged to no one You didn't stand a chance son If your pants were undone 'Cause you were bred for humanity
Hoorah War child, dance the days and nights away Sweet child, how do you do today? War child, dance the days and nights away Sweet child, how do you
I'll see you at the Weighing In When your life's sum-total's made And you set your wealth in godly deeds Against the sins you've laid And you place your
sleep by your shores Warchild, dance the days and dance the nights away Warchild, dance the days and dance the nights away Warchild, dance the days and dance the nights away Warchild
by your shores. WarChild dance the days, and dance the nights away. WarChild dance the days, and dance the nights away. WarChild dance the days, and dance the nights away. WarChild
Oversettelse: Jethro Tull. WarChild.
: In and out of the front door, ran twelve back-door angels. Their hair was a golden-brown they didn't see me wink my eye. 'Tis said they put we
: Over the mountains, and under the sky riding dirty gray horses, go you and I. Mating with chance, copulating with mirth the sad-glad paymasters (
: Meanwhile back in the year One, when you belonged to no-one, you didn't stand a chance son, if your pants were undone. 'Cause you were bred for
: Brain-storming habit-forming battle-warning weary winsome actor spewing spineless chilling lines --- the critics falling over to tell themselves
