Matt Ingram - My Thoughts, They Too Will Tire lyrics

Leave your answers for the bones, It's not just you alone who knows That the shadows ‘neath the road Won't last forever. But listen in the meantime, though, As the cannons on the noon explode As the statesman and the pauper Pa** by together. And as the gunman blinded by the sun Aims for the sky and the fires That sired his vision, His hands are tied to the eyes of the children's minds And the line of knives that bind time With every incision. And when they pull on the noose That his bullets and their ruthlessness Have inspired, My hands, they too, will tire. From the leaking pores of the piss poor To the royal blood drawn from old folk lore - each a man, made, born, lured, or torn From a mother. And they'll be some who bleed the others dry, With aspirations not to die, But to d**h means no more or less than any other. And where the minors of kindness pry deep Into the weeping trials provided by The gold torch left bare And unprotected, The blazing hands of the dog eat dog band's Only wish is not to go to the grave Without being Respected. And as they look upon the angel choir Who sing songs so far From what they desire, My eyes, they too, will tire. As excursions wane the Jester's game To trick-reap the lands for other's gains, Now money maintains the way In which they suffered. Which once was clear a row of arms in chains Now appear as nothing changed - Restrained by wages, the sovereign slaves Wage war on each other. And as the suits and sullied saints Taint the buck that Lady Luck struck With a hunter armed with hunger, He's fed to d**h with one hand And led along with the other Towards the wealth that She'll bury him under. And as he ponders his position Where the condition of his sanity Seems dire, My mind, it too, will tire. If man made god, and god judged man, Then man shed god of both god's hands, Then whose divine right is it To write the laws that govern? The strongest armed, the loudest bark? The bu*ton braced for exodus dark? Both right and wrong have masters Marked above them. And where the crusader wraps himself In his flag of stars To mask his moral scars And his marred ambition, The crossed has burned Not only in his field of graves But in the minds of those men Ashamed of their old tradition. And as they call into the wind In the hopes to catch the ear of their guilty Messiah, My voice, it too, will tire. The ancient pen of speech re-writes The erudite machine of night, As the T.V. quotes the quill And makes the martyrs; Ideas, ideals, idols augment The clear intent of wars decent - Each an idiom of truth That can't be bartered. But when the gas-masked masters Cast a cloud around the crowd They'll herd to heaven, The preachers and the guzzlers Will both agree that a country Can't be great Without a weapon. And as they bleed into the wine gla**es Of the heroes They've all been taught to admire, My heart, it too, will tire. You'll observe it as the road unfolds, That what you live is what you know, And the bricks that have no tears To flows in tatters. And I lose my strength to put to words An attempt at truth drawn undisturbed By right or wrong, Or if it even matters. And on the stone were the prophet Loaned his eyes to the pa**ers by And contemplated what they could acquire, They celebrate the haze that mars the day One way in which the greys Won't raise any higher. And when they laugh At how the colours of their visions Burn bright as holy fire, My hatred, it too, will tire. My hatred, it too, will tire.