45 ordspråk av Jethro Tull
Jethro Tull
Snot is running down his nose, greasy fingers, smearing shabby clothes.
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Take your place in a wiser world of bigger motor cars.
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The Christmas spirit is not what you drink.
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The doer and the thinker, no allowances for the other, as the failing light illuminates the mercenaries creed.
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The excrement bubbles, the century slime decays, and the brainwashing government lackeys would have us say it's under control.
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The legends lie cradled in the seagulls call, and the promise they made are ground beneath the sadist's fall.
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The poet lifts his pen as the soldier sheaths his sword.
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To tell the truth, I'd scare me too.
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Too many heroes stepping on too many toes, too many yes-men nodding when they really mean no.
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Too many temples where we could worship the beast.
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Who the hell can he be? He's never had V.D.
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Who would be a poor man, a beggar man, a thief, if he held a rich man in his hand?
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You set your wealth in Godly deeds against the seeds you've laid.
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You were bred for humanity and sold to society. One day you'll wake up in the present day, a million generations removed from the expectations of being who you really want to be.
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Your sperm's in the gutter, your love's in the sink.
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