My trumpets are down,
the wind callously composed.
The guitar is gone
and the rest of the band transposed.
But, I stick to single notes
and things I understand
I'm still a stranger in this land
So I put on some Parliament
and I'm walking my soul
for another block.
Picking up arguments
with the bills on the wall,
while the beat goes on.
My conductor is deaf
and the melody has been mislaid.
The theatre is locked up
and the last bar has been played.
I rush through an empty alley
with the wind playing behind,
the revolutionary kind.
So I put on some Parliament
and I'm walking my soul
for another block.
Picking up arguments
with the bills on the wall,
while the beat goes on.
My drums lost their beat
and the singers have aching throats,
stamping their feet
quite incorruptible.
But do I hear the trumpets rise
and pages being turned?
Maybe that's why I'm this concerned.
So I put on some Parliament
and I'm walking my soul
for another block.
Picking up arguments
with the bills on the wall,
while the beat goes on.
