be devoured! vengeance is completed by the torments of hell even the dead shall shred tears of fear hatred is satiated by the lost souls that fell even the dead
about a month later in Europe and everywhere else. Produced by Steve Schram, and recorded at Sing Sing Studios in the bands home town of Melbourne, this
love We are not here to sing We're here to kill the dove Why must this moment come When childhood has to die When hope shrinks to a sigh And speech
a spoon But God help the singer Out of tune A crippled Mohammad Ali Looked at bad luck in the mirror Bad luck looked back at him And sighed He looked
octave, I don't mean to confuse you Many of us have been taught to sing And so we practice scales Many of us were born singing And thus were born with
Curling lips, fingertips, dead eye dips I saw it all in the blackfield Splinter cracks, summer tracks, paperbacks We found them all in the blackfield
stand it no longer, At the end of the song, she had dropped to the floor. Sobbing and sighing, she rose from the table, And sobbing and sighing, she
of the past The singing in your veins And I held you And I touched you And embraced you And I felt you And with every breath and every sigh I felt
ask for But in the end you could not deliver Sing you fools, but you got it wrong Enjoy your prayers because you haven't got long Your queen is dead
are judged, and twist in this storm like birds over sails. III I have caught the dead again: I click my eyes And there they are, mercurial ghosts, formed And moving; so the dead
! [F & Sp:] The renaissance of the seals I rest... [Bridge:] I rest upon the riverbank, worshipper of my thrills The crackling of the dead leaves counts
questions and answers That somehow seem wrong In my life There are times when I catch in the silence The sigh of a faraway song And it sings Of a world
to my good king King of both the land and sea We wish may god save my king For ever I will the prince From Uruguay to Philippines But my sigh of remorse
't understand it. * In attempts to moderate they ask why we don't write love songs. What is it that we sing then? Our love of life is total, everything
Dead breath from T.V. sets fill the empty houses With a dead white light, it's no surprise Dead checks, dead sex Dead cigarettes flood the ambulance
of them all The willow weeps for Lily As its branches touch the water The wind is crying, "Lily" As it sighs along the shore The river's singing "Lily
