The Young

Stop the clocks; the world is over;
for tonight we dine in hell.
We may lose ourselves along the way.
We may break free of our shell.

We don’t know where we’re going,
and we don’t know who we are.
For what’s the use of knowing,
when you’re driving in your car

You’re free against the road.
You’re faster than the wind.
If you open up your eyes you’ll see,
The world look fat and thin.

The eve of night is coming;
You can hear the whistle roar.
It’s the call to all that hear it.
It’s the beating drum of war.

Why does the sun rise on,
in the heart of an English night?
Why does it bring us feeling?
Why does it bring us light?

The long fight is not over,
not ‘till the day is done.
Then the night will come alive again,
and the Young may have their fun.

The waywardness of youth,
standing lonely in their grave;
For time is ticking all along,
And the Young cannot be saved.



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