BlindBlindBlind

The dust and the mess of our mornings,
Promise that we'll never quit --
So drunk, though our hands surely woven
Entire fleets of staggering ships...
Now our ships line the floors of the ocean,
And the ocean's breaching the ridge,
And the terrified dreams of our wanderings
That once lit our way are now hid...

We want punks in the palace --
'Cause punks got the loveliest dreams
And our gang is liquored and lovely,
And smart and sweet and lean,
And burn with a curious flame
That spits + kicks + shines
And trumpets the labour of waking + trying...

There ain't none - sometimes there is -
Banged + bitter - but cling to it -
Power's the province of miserable pricks
There ain't none but sometimes there is...