Thick As A Brick (Part 1) - Jethro Tull

Really don’t mind if you sit this one out

My words but a whisper, your deafness a shout

I may make you feel, but I can’t make you think

Your sperm’s in the gutter, your love’s in the sink

So you ride yourselves over the fields

And you make all your animal deals

And your wise men don’t know how it feels

To be thick as a brick

And the sand-castle virtues are all swept away

In the tidal destruction the moral melee

The elastic retreat rings the close of play

As the last wave uncovers the new-fangled way

But your new shoes are worn at the heels

And your suntan does rapidly peel

And your wise men don’t know how it feels

To be thick as a brick

And the love that I feel is so far away:

I’m a bad dream that I just had today

And you shake your head and said, «It's a shame.»

Spin me back down the years and the days of my youth

Draw the lace and black curtains and shut out the whole truth

Spin me down the long ages: let them sing the song

See there!

A son is born

And we pronounce him fit to fight

There are black-heads on his shoulders

And he pees himself in the night

We’ll make a man of him

Put him to a trade

Teach him to play Monopoly

Not to sing in the rain

The Poet and the Painter casting shadows on the water

As the sun plays on the infantry returning from the sea

The doer and the thinker.

No allowance for the other

As the failing light illuminates the mercenary’s creed

The home fire burning, the kettle almost boiling

But the master of the house is far away

The horses stamping, their warm breath clouding

In the sharp and frosty morning of the day

And the poet lifts his pen

While the soldier sheaths his sword

And the youngest of the family

Is moving with authority

Building castles by the sea

He dares the tardy tide

To wash them all aside

The cattle quietly grazing at the grass down by the river

Where the swelling mountain water moves onward to the sea

The builder of the castles renews the age-old purpose

And contemplates the milking girl whose offer is his need

The young men of the household have all gone into service

And are not to be expected for a year

The innocent young master, thoughts moving ever faster

Has formed the plan to change the man he seems

And the poet sheaths his pen

While the soldier lifts his sword

And the oldest of the family

Is moving with authority

Coming from across the sea

He challenges the son

Who puts him to the run

What do you do when the old man’s gone?

Do you want to be him?

And your real self sings the song

Do you want to free him?

No one to help you get up steam

And the whirlpool turns you way off-beam

I’ve come down from the upper class to mend your rotten ways

My father was a man of power whom everyone obeyed

So, come on, all you criminals!

I’ve got to put you straight

Just like I did with my old man twenty years too late

Your bread and water’s going cold

Your hair is short and neat

I’ll judge you all and make damn sure

That no-one judges me

You curl your toes in fun

As you smile at everyone

You meet the stares

You’re unaware that your doings aren’t done

And you laugh most ruthlessly

As you tell us what not to be

But how are we supposed to see

Where we should run?

I see you shuffle in the courtroom

With your rings upon your fingers

And your downy little sidies

And your silver-buckle shoes

Playing at the hard case

You follow the example

Of the comic-paper idol

Who lets you bend the rules

So, come on, ye childhood heroes!

Won’t you rise up from the pages of your comic-books

Your super crooks

And show us all the way

Well, make your will and testament

Won’t you join your local government

We’ll have Superman for president

Let Robin save the day

You put your bet on number one

And it comes up every time

The other kids have all backed down

And they put you first in line

And so you finally ask yourself just how big you are

And you take your place in a wiser world of bigger motor cars

Now you wonder who to call on

So, where the hell was Biggles when you needed him last Saturday?

And where were all the sportsmen who always pulled you through?

They’re all resting down in Cornwall

Writing up their memoirs

For a paper-back edition

Of the Boy Scout Manual