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Midnight Oil
Midnight Oil


Информация
Откуда Sydney, Australia
Жанры Alternative Rock
Rock
Годы 1971—2009
Лейблы Columbia Records
См. также Ghostwriters
Сайт Website
Бывшие участники
Rob Hirst
Andrew James
Jim Moginie
Peter Garrett
Martin Rotsey
Peter Gifford
Bones Hillman



Music World  →  Тексты песен  →  M  →  Midnight Oil  →  Дискография  →  Bird Noises

Альбом Midnight Oil


Bird Noises (1980)
1980
1.
2.
3.
Wedding Cake Island
4.
. . .


The raising of children, the rearing of young
Used to be simple but look what it's become
The choice of career, the proper vocation
Out of your hands, all for the needs of the nation

No inhibitions with the modern child
Wasted lessons or pleasure or pain
Easy to follow your natural instinct
Easy to follow, much too hard to learn

Useless expressions and sporting aggression
Don't waste my time, I can't wait for the end of the session
What opportunity, the modern child?
Waste passion and wasted mind

Some kids got no time for playtime
Some kids got no time for games
Some kids got no time for playtime
Some kids got no time for games

. . .


On a knife edge razor day
If you listen long enough they've got nothing to say

It's a time warp place don't change
The rhythm of the night, the beating rain

You move fast to get off of that merry-go-round

There's one gun, probably more
And the others are pointing at our backdoor

At the best hotel of all
Put my name on the wall, put my bed on the floor

You get much less well it seems like more
Heart's still sore

Word crimes
Bitter lies
Bitter crimes
Government Lies

. . .

Wedding Cake Island

[Нет текста]

. . .


Tell all your friends I'm the cure
Tell them again and again
Watching the walls, spinning in doors
I can bring you peace of mind
Use me whenever you please
Sweeter than sweet memories
Everything's neat, avoiding the heat
I can give you peace of mind

All this pressure I can't handle

Everything else becomes dim
You're so much better than them
Waiting around for something to happen
Bring you this instant relief

Kilo pascals in my finger
God is hiding in this teacup

. . .


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