作词 : Current Ninety Three I caught a glimpse of your eyes Last night in a restless dream Awaking out of green field blue seas stars Your eyes arose like the spectres of flowers I turned out the light and clicked fast the door The book fell I had so many thoughts, so many signs I made sense of nothing at all This green dream was unreal; the crickets sing Across deserts and plains the lost feast Whose shimmering teeth are marking the passing of time A cloud falls; a bird shivers and sings, its beak stained with night Pure gold: the dark is waiting, the darkness is hungry, The deep is angry, and the telephone rings on A film screen descends, and the silent movies play Buster Keaton falls and rots, as Big Ben sings and boils On an endless swamp; the silence is treacle thick And calls us to prayer: paint God with your blood And fill haunted women with knives and kites And gauges and valves and make them weep long hyms To gaseous and clumsy mortality whilst fish descend Remember remember the burning ember Embedded in your chest: the soul watches TV And gorges itself on blood and popcorn Now that's what I call decay decline and hard times Hard times, very hard times, Mr. Lindsay Hard times and winter so cruel: you have stopped my watch At the stroke of three and call for the police But there's a time for tea and a time for expiring And the notice to quit is in the post: And you should know: your Little cow and calf is going to die
作词 : Current Ninety Three I caught a glimpse of your eyes Last night in a restless dream Awaking out of green field blue seas stars Your eyes arose like the spectres of flowers I turned out the light and clicked fast the door The book fell I had so many thoughts, so many signs I made sense of nothing at all This green dream was unreal; the crickets sing Across deserts and plains the lost feast Whose shimmering teeth are marking the passing of time A cloud falls; a bird shivers and sings, its beak stained with night Pure gold: the dark is waiting, the darkness is hungry, The deep is angry, and the telephone rings on A film screen descends, and the silent movies play Buster Keaton falls and rots, as Big Ben sings and boils On an endless swamp; the silence is treacle thick And calls us to prayer: paint God with your blood And fill haunted women with knives and kites And gauges and valves and make them weep long hyms To gaseous and clumsy mortality whilst fish descend Remember remember the burning ember Embedded in your chest: the soul watches TV And gorges itself on blood and popcorn Now that's what I call decay decline and hard times Hard times, very hard times, Mr. Lindsay Hard times and winter so cruel: you have stopped my watch At the stroke of three and call for the police But there's a time for tea and a time for expiring And the notice to quit is in the post: And you should know: your Little cow and calf is going to die
