"Darlings, are you ready for the long winter's fall?"
Said the lady in her parlor, said the butler in the hall.
"Is there time for another?" cried the drunkard in his sleep.
"Not likely," said the little child. "What's done the Lord can keep."
And the vicar stands a-praying, and the television dies
As the white dot flickers and is gone, and no-one stops to cry

Dark ages, shaking the dead
Closed pages, better not read
Cold rages, they burn in your head

The big jet rumbles over runway miles that scar the patchwork green
Where slick tycoons and rich buffoons have opened up the seam
Of golden nights and champagne flights, ad-man overkill
And in the haze, consumer-crazed, we take the sugar pill

Jagged fires mark the picket lines the politicians weep
And mealy-mouthed, down corridors of power on tip-toe creep
Come and see bureaucracy make its final heave
And let the new disorder through while senses take their leave

Families screaming line the streets and put the windows through
In corner shops, where keepers kept the country's life-blood blue
Take their pick, and try the trick with loaves and fishes shared
And the vicar shouts as the lights go out, and no-one really cares

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