The boy is listening to those records from the past
He wants to make them last
He listens to them all
They are the voices of the faces on the wall
For they make him feel alive
Knows them all and their life stories
Hangs on every little tale they tell
Shares their pain and shares their glories One day he even cut their names upon his skin
They mean that much to him
His bedroom window opens to the evening air
For them he'd take the test
The fox is in his lair
The volume of his system is full on
This angry noise is the muzak of the wastelands
But the neighbours moan and the parents call Wastelands, the wastelands, wastelands The boy is dressing in the fashion of the day
The kids all dress that way
The boy looks out and sees his friedns are waiting there
You can tell them anywhere
In the cold electric glare
Of those lamps that make you think that night is day
They drag their lusts into your sight
With shouts and screams they meet the night
They block your way in twos and fours In uniforms from city stores
It won't be long before
They're closing in, who knows the score A martyr's blood is nourishing the wastelands
Wastelands
Yes it won't be long before
A martyr's blood is nourishing the wastelands Wastelands
Wastelands, the wastelands, wastelands, oh wastelands
Yes it won't be long before a martyr's blood is nourishing
The wastelands
A martyr's blood is nourishing the wastelands
Wastelands, oh wastelands Words and music: M. Ure D. Mitchell.
האתר פועל ברישיון אקו"ם
כל הזכויות שמורות 2022 ©