Anthrax Doolaly

The wall on which the prophets wrote
is cracking at the seams,
Upon the instuments of death
The sunlight brightly gleams.
When every man is torn apart
With nightmares and with grief
Will no one lay the laurel wreath
When silence drowns the screams?

Confusion will be my epitaph
As I crawl a cracked and broken path
If we make it we can all sit back and laugh
But I fear tomorow I'll be dying.

Between the iron gates of fate
The seeds of time were sown
And watered by the deeds of those
Who know and who are known
Knowledge is a deadly friend
When no one sets the rules
The fate of all mankind I fear
Is in the hands of fools.

Peter Sinfield (1969)