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Lyrics for Thick As A Brick by Tull Jethro:
| | | Artist: | Tull Jethro |
| | Album: | Thick As A Brick | | Track: | Thick As A Brick | | | | Date Added: | 18/10/2007 | | Views: | 58 | | | | Lyrics: | Thick As A Brick
Really don't mind if you sit this one out.
My words but a
whisper -- your deafness a SHOUT.
I may make you feel but I can't make you think.
Your
sperm's in the gutter -- your love's in the sink.
So you ride yourselves over the fields
and
you make all your animal deals and
your wise men don't know how it feels to be thick
as a brick.
And the sand-castle virtues are all swept away in
the tidal
destruction
the moral melee.
The elastic retreat rings the close of play
as the last
wave uncovers the newfangled way.
But your new shoes are worn at the heels and
your suntan
does rapidly peel and
your wise men don't know how it feels to be thick as a
brick.
And the love that I feel is so far away:
I'm a bad dream that I just had
today -- and you
shake your head and
say it's a shame.
Spin me back down the
years and the days of my youth.
Draw the lace and black curtains and shut out the whole
truth.
Spin me down the long ages: let them sing the song.
See there! A son is born
-- and we pronounce him fit to fight.
There are black-heads on his shoulders, and he pees
himself in the night.
We'll
make a man of him
put him to trade
teach him
to
play Monopoly and
to sing in the rain.
The Poet and the painter casting shadows on
the water --
as the sun plays on the infantry returning from the sea.
The do-er and the
thinker: no allowance for the other --
as the failing light illuminates the mercenary's
creed.
The home fire burning: the kettle almost boiling --
but the master of the house is
far away.
The horses stamping -- their warm breath clouding
in the sharp and frosty
morning of the day.
And the poet lifts his pen while the soldier sheaths his
sword.
And the youngest of the family is moving with authority.
Building castles by
the sea, he dares the tardy tide to wash them all aside.
The cattle quietly grazing at
the grass down by the river
where the swelling mountain water moves onward to the sea:
the
builder of the castles renews the age-old purpose
and contemplates the milking girl whose offer
is his need.
The young men of the household have
all gone into service and
are not to
be expected for a year.
The innocent young master -- thoughts moving ever faster --
has
formed the plan to change the man he seems.
And the poet sheaths his pen while the soldier
lifts his sword.
And the oldest of the family is moving with authority.
Coming from
across the sea, he challenges the son who puts him to the run.
What do you do
when
the old man's gone -- do you want to be him? And
your real self sings the
song.
Do you want to free him?
No one to help you get up steam --
and the whirlpool
turns you 'way off-beam.
LATER.
I've come down from the upper class to mend your
rotten ways.
My father was a man-of-power whom everyone obeyed.
So come on all you
criminals!
I've got to put you straight just like I did with my old man --
twenty years
too late.
Your bread and water's going cold.
Your hair is too short and neat.
I'll
judge you all and make damn sure that no-one judges me.
You curl your toes in fun as you
smile at everyone -- you meet the stares.
You're unaware that your doings aren't done.
And
you laugh most ruthlessly as you tell us what not to be.
But how are we supposed to see where
we should run?
I see you shuffle in the courtroom with
your rings upon your fingers
and
your downy little sidies and
your silver-buckle shoes.
Playing at the hard case,
you follow the example of the comic-paper idol
who lets you bend the
rules.
So!
Come on ye childhood heroes!
Won't you rise up from the pages of
your comic-books
your super crooks
and show us all the way.
Well! Make your will and
testament. Won't you?
Join your local government.
We'll have Superman for
president
let Robin save the day.
You put your bet on number one and it comes up
every time.
The other kids have all backed down and they put you first in line.
And so you
finally ask yourself just how big you are --
and take your place in a wiser world of bigger
motor cars.
And you wonder who to call on.
So! Where the hell was Biggles when you
needed him last Saturday?
And where were all the sportsmen who always pulled you
though?
They're all resting down in Cornwall --
writing up their memoirs for a paper-back
edition
of the Boy Scout Manual.
LATER.
See there! A man born -- and we
pronounce him fit for peace.
There's a load lifted from his shoulders with the discovery of his
disease.
We'll
take the child from him
put it to the test
teach it
to be a
wise man
how to fool the rest.
QUOTE
We will be geared to the average rather
than the exceptional
God is an overwhelming responsibility
we walked through the maternity
ward and saw 218 babies wearing nylons
cats are on the upgrade
upgrade? Hipgrave. Oh,
Mac.
LATER
In the clear white circles of morning wonder,
I take my place with
the lord of the hills.
And the blue-eyed soldiers stand slightly discoloured (in neat little
rows)
sporting canvas frills.
With their jock-straps pinching, they slouch to
attention,
while queueing for sarnies at the office canteen.
Saying -- how's your granny
and
good old Ernie: he coughed up a tenner on a premium bond win.
The legends
(worded in the ancient tribal hymn) lie cradled
in the seagull's call.
And all the
promises they made are ground beneath the sadist's fall.
The poet and the wise man stand behind
the gun,
and signal for the crack of dawn.
Light the sun.
Do you believe in the
day? Do you?
Believe in the day! The Dawn Creation of the Kings has begun.
Soft Venus
(lonely maiden) brings the ageless one.
Do you believe in the day?
The fading hero has
returned to the night -- and fully pregnant with the day,
wise men endorse the poet's
sight.
Do you believe in the day? Do you? Believe in the day!
Let me tell you the
tales of your life of
your love and the cut of the knife
the tireless oppression
the
wisdom instilled
the desire to kill or be killed.
Let me sing of the losers who lie in the
street as the last bus goes by.
The pavements ar empty: the gutters run red -- while the
fool
toasts his god in the sky.
So come all ye young men who are building
castles!
Kindly state the time of the year and join your voices in a hellish chorus.
Mark
the precise nature of your fear.
Let me help you pick up your dead as the sins of the father
are fed
with
the blood of the fools and
the thoughts of the wise and
from the
pan under your bed.
Let me make you a present of song as
the wise man breaks wind and is
gone while
the fool with the hour-glass is cooking his goose and
the nursery rhyme winds
along.
So! Come all ye young men who are building castles!
Kindly state the time of
the year and join your voices in a hellish chorus.
Mark the precise nature of your
fear.
See! The summer lightning casts its bolts upon you
and the hour of judgement
draweth near.
Would you be
the fool stood in his suit of armour or
the wiser man who
rushes clear.
So! Come on ye childhood heroes!
Won't your rise up from the pages of your
comic-books
your super-crooks and
show us all the way.
Well! Make your will and
testament.
Won't you? Join your local government.
We'll have Superman for
president
let Robin save the day.
So! Where the hell was Biggles when you needed him last
Saturday?
And where were all the sportsmen who always pulled you through?
They're all
resting down in Cornwall -- writing up their memoirs
for a paper-back edition of the Boy Scout
Manual.
OF COURSE
So you ride yourselves over the fields and
you make all your
animal deals and
your wise men don't know how it feels to be thick as a brick | | | |  Reddit | X / Twitter | Facebook | Copy link |
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