Текст песни Wuthering Heights - The Desperate Poet

Salt
Жанр: Power Metal
Исполнитель: Wuthering Heights
Альбом: Salt
Длительность: 06:29
Рейтинг: 1020
MP3: Скачать
Загрузил: Pigfucker

Текст:

The Desperate Poet If Shakespeare himself be raised from his grave There'd be no words for the emptiness I feel I released the beast inside me, but it had gone tame I rang the churchbells high on the hill, but no one came I try capturing images, but my camera is blind And the stars that I reach for Just the movieset of my mind Is this pain in vain That I feel Or is real art Made in this fashion With passion I don't know I'm a desperate poet, lost for words and I know it My ink is dry, though I try, still my words will not fly I'm a desperate poet, and I know that I owe it to you To deliver the goods, and I would, if I could But this tune that I'm destroying Shows there's nothing more annoying Than a desperate, desperate poet, so it seems I sign my name in blood, but it's not binding I turn every stone, but I'm not finding anything My pen should be on fire, but it's not igniting Ready for war, I don't know what I'm fighting for Is this wordsmith Worth his salt Or is it all just Pages from a phrasebook Who took the words Out of my mouth I'm a desperate poet, lost for words and I know it My ink is dry, though I try, still my words will not fly I'm a desperate poet, and I know that I owe it to you To deliver the goods, and I would, if I could But this tune that I'm destroying Shows there's nothing more annoying Than a desperate, desperate poet I would sing of the loves that we all once knew And the ones that we ended up with Of the memories that you've buried so deep in the past You start to wonder if they're only a myth I would sing of the strong and all of the wrong That they've wrought for the weak of the will Of those who have nothing but a desperate embrace To hold on to when the night's growing chill I would sing of the false ones who have taken up rule And the true ones who were burned at the stake Of the ones who run free and the ones who enslave Of an honest day's work and an unmarked grave Of the Sun and the Earth and of fire and rain Of longing and of power and of lust and of pain A symphony of triumph for the day hope returns Or a soundtrack to insanity when all the world burns! Flame of creation all but dead Still it burns however lightly Would that I could see it burst again Into a fire shining brightly I'm a desperate poet, lost for words and I know it I'm a desperate poet, and I know that I owe it to you To deliver the goods I'm a desperate poet, lost for words and I know it My ink is dry, though I try, still my words will not fly I'm a desperate poet, and I know that I owe it to you To deliver the goods, and I would, if I could But this tune that I'm destroying Shows there's nothing more annoying Than a desperate, desperate poet
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