| Lyrics: | A system in the making
self-healing for the blind,
sitting in the waiting-room
of the
patient mind....
Raging at the illness,
when the rage may be it's cause.
The purpose
of the will is lost
in the search for an escape clause,
Fatal convalescence, the
wound
becomes a weal:
the poison is in essence just
the virus of the real.
But
there's sympathetic healing,
the power of the soul, bandages,
concealing all that we can't
control,
Waiting for the doctor to come
A system in the making,
self
healing for the blind,
sitting in the waiting-room
of the patient mind....
But there
isn't any answer
the consciousness can't quote
when the loaded dice of chance
are
there rattling in the throat.
Waiting for the doctor to come
You put your
faith in others -
the fear could not be worse...
But nature's not your mother
now,
...just your suckling nurse
And there isn't any doctor,
there isn't any cure
-
That might come as a shock to you,
but can you really be so sure?
can you
really be so sure?
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