War Games - Morgan, Morgan Fisher, Tim Staffell

I looked, and could not see my hand

held up before my eyes.

The clouds of war were gathering

across the shrouded skies.

The Barons and the Princes

and the Ace in armoured fist,

hold up the crumbling prison

of the Truth which they resist.

The willing flame of apathy

is fanned in many homes;

the independent voices

speak in harmonising tones.

When you can feed the fortunes

of a man you’ve never seen,

The time has come to beat

your ploughs into a War Machine.

Tonight We ride on Bethlehem,

to where our troubles began.

Two thousand years we’ll blow away;

God send the prophet again.

Tonight We ride, on Bethlehem,

The only man who might have helped

suffered, and we watched Him die.

I’ve noticed lately that the news

is unbelievable.

The whole illusion they prepare

is working rather well.

The people must be kept amused;

if they should ever rise

our precious empire will

dissolve before our very eyes.

Tonight We ride on Bethlehem,

to where our troubles began.

Two thousand years we’ll blow away;

God send the prophet again

Tonight We ride, on Bethlehem,

to where We first turned aside

The only man who might have helped

suffered, and we watched Him die.

God send the prophet again.