Morgan
Текст песни War Games

I looked, and could not see my hand
held up before my eyes.
The clouds of war were gathering
across the shrouded skies.
The Barons and the Princes
and the Ace in armoured fist,
hold up the crumbling prison
of the Truth which they resist.

The willing flame of apathy
is fanned in many homes;
the independent voices
speak in harmonising tones.
When you can feed the fortunes
of a man you've never seen,
The time has come to beat
your ploughs into a War Machine.

Tonight We ride on Bethlehem,
to where our troubles began.
Two thousand years we'll blow away;
God send the prophet again.
Tonight We ride, on Bethlehem,
The only man who might have helped
suffered, and we watched Him die.

I've noticed lately that the news
is unbelievable.
The whole illusion they prepare
is working rather well.
The people must be kept amused;
if they should ever rise
our precious empire will
dissolve before our very eyes.

Tonight We ride on Bethlehem,
to where our troubles began.
Two thousand years we'll blow away;
God send the prophet again
Tonight We ride, on Bethlehem,
to where We first turned aside
The only man who might have helped
suffered, and we watched Him die.
God send the prophet again.