Burning Season

<br>I`m sick of the sight of some snot-nosed kid <br>Cutting a swathe through the age of deconstruction<br>Picking at the sores of the dying beast <br>And winning all the prizes for imagination<br>I don`t know what we`ve got to lose <br>But I see the statues beginning to fall<br>The deisel`s turning, the moon is high<br><br>Ch: What the hell are we waiting for?<br>I see the smoke on the blue horizon<br>I smell the fires of the burning season<br>What the hell are we waiting for?<br><br>I`m sick of the ironies piled up high <br>In this sneery culture with its knowing smile<br>I`m sick of the sermons from the Church of Unbelief<br>All fat, empty and anaesthetised<br>The emperor`s out riding naked again<br>I can`t believe we`re still playing this tired old game<br>Let`s get out there and cut him down<br><br>Ch: What the hell are we waiting for? . . <br><br>On a smoky yellow sunset, I`m sitting at the wheel<br>As the traffic crawls by on the ten-lane<br>Bumper to bumper, nowhere to nowhere into the next millenium<br>I see you drowning in a sea of rage<br>Let`s go back and get the ones who put you down here<br>The highway`s jammed up with disinformation<br>And the anaesthetic dealers are selling by the million<br><br>Ch: What the fuck are we waiting here for? . .