These are not dispa**ionate words of the cool The headline still rules the editor Shall we douse out the flames or will everybody fuse And leave us stranded here tomorrow I heard a calling out, a cry from the heart From the towns of cement and the beauty A whisper its turned howl, man he didn He was standing waiting for tomorrow Nothing I could never figure the calendars flow Nor can i work out how the wild, wild wind blows But we Away from the place of no tomorrow Nothing Nothing Oh the wrecking fields are a terrible place With a sulphurous smell and a frightening pace And the hook goes early and the critic is king It There While shylock is smiling we If we surrender ourself to industrial rules We Now Nothing Nothing