Black Swans


A flight of black swans darkens the skies in the East.
The quiet voice of reason drowned by the howls of the raging beast.
The paper-trail burns behind the golden goose-chase.
Too late to turn and run – so put on your bravest face.

Hear the puppet masters laugh,
as they cut their puppet’s strings.
The meek seeking their wrath,
upon the gentry and the kings. Yeah it’s

too late – don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Too late – don’t claim I didn’t say. (that it’s)
Too late – to make things better.
Too late – to save the day.

Divide et impera – guerilla warfare smites the foe.
Distracting from their actions to maintain their status quo.
Like a master magician their hands divert your eyes.
Wrapped up in a thin-veneer your dream ravaged by their lies.

Hear the puppet masters laugh,
watching their tired puppets burn.
The meek seeking their wrath,
even the worm’s about to turn. But it’s

CHORUS

As the flight of black swans touches down in the West,
streets and cities razed as the innocent protest.
The clever and the crooked have long left the battle zone.
The rabble fight it out, like hungry dogs over a bone.

PRE-CHORUS

CHORUS

©20.7.2015 Andrew Robert Chapman


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