TWO MINUTES TO MIDNIGHT
(Adrian Smith/Bruce Dickinson)
Kill for gain or shoot to maim,
But we don't need a reason;
The golden goose is on the loose
And never out of season.
Some blackened pride still burns inside
This shell of bloody treason;
Here's my gun for a barrel of fun
For the love of living death.
Chorus
The killers breed or the demon's seed,
The glamour, the fortune, the pain;
Go to war again, blood is freedom's stain,
Don't you pray for my soul anymore.
2 minutes to midnight
The hands that threaten doom.
2 minutes to midnight
To kill the unborn in the womb.
The blind men shout let the creatures out,
We'll show the unbelievers,
Napalm screams of human flames,
Of a prime time belsen feast...yeah!
As the reasons for the carnage cut
their meat and lick the gravy,
We oil the jaws of the war machine
and feed it with our babies.
Chorus
The body bags and little rags
of children torn in two,
And the jellied brains of those who remain
to put the finger right on you.
As the madmen play on words and make us all dance to their song,
To the tune of starving millions to make a better kind of gun.
Chorus
Midnight...all night...
(Adrian Smith/Bruce Dickinson)
Kill for gain or shoot to maim,
But we don't need a reason;
The golden goose is on the loose
And never out of season.
Some blackened pride still burns inside
This shell of bloody treason;
Here's my gun for a barrel of fun
For the love of living death.
Chorus
The killers breed or the demon's seed,
The glamour, the fortune, the pain;
Go to war again, blood is freedom's stain,
Don't you pray for my soul anymore.
2 minutes to midnight
The hands that threaten doom.
2 minutes to midnight
To kill the unborn in the womb.
The blind men shout let the creatures out,
We'll show the unbelievers,
Napalm screams of human flames,
Of a prime time belsen feast...yeah!
As the reasons for the carnage cut
their meat and lick the gravy,
We oil the jaws of the war machine
and feed it with our babies.
Chorus
The body bags and little rags
of children torn in two,
And the jellied brains of those who remain
to put the finger right on you.
As the madmen play on words and make us all dance to their song,
To the tune of starving millions to make a better kind of gun.
Chorus
Midnight...all night...
No hay comentarios:
Publicar un comentario