Burning Season

New Model Army

I'm sick of the sight of some snot-nosed kid

Cutting a swathe through the age of deconstruction

Picking at the sores of the dying beast

And winning all the prizes for imagination

I don't know what we've got to lose

But I see the statues beginning to fall

The deisel's turning, the moon is high

Ch: What the hell are we waiting for?

I see the smoke on the blue horizon

I smell the fires of the burning season

What the hell are we waiting for?

I'm sick of the ironies piled up high

In this sneery culture with its knowing smile

I'm sick of the sermons from the Church of Unbelief

All fat, empty and anaesthetised

The emperor's out riding naked again

I can't believe we're still playing this tired old game

Let's get out there and cut him down

Ch: What the hell are we waiting for? . .

On a smoky yellow sunset, I'm sitting at the wheel

As the traffic crawls by on the ten-lane

Bumper to bumper, nowhere to nowhere into the next millenium

I see you drowning in a sea of rage

Let's go back and get the ones who put you down here

The highway's jammed up with disinformation

And the anaesthetic dealers are selling by the million

Ch: What the fuck are we waiting here for? . . .

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