Codpieces And Capes -

You were our teen years of which we can’t let go

You were our soul’s dream — to make that our own

The trail it leads us forward through every year of our lives

Moments of despondency, money fears and strife

And though it seems like nothing will ever sort us out,

It’s alright!

(We've Got the Music!)

It’s alright!

(We've Got the Music!)

It’s alright!

(We've Got the Music!)

It’s alright!

(We've Got the Music!)

I want to form new theories, not harbour old beliefs

As if some vinyl gatefold were the only truth I seek

But if I take the easy road by sticking to the script

It’s alright!

(We've Got the Music!)

It’s alright!

(We've Got the Music!)

It’s alright!

(We've Got the Music!)

It’s alright!

(We've Got the Music!)

It’s alright!

(We've Got the Music!)

It’s alright!

(We've Got the Music!)

When the things that we do get out of control

When the stuff we churn out just plugs in the holes in our lives

It’s time to turn round, time to find a way

But if Neal can find God, then what’s in it for me?

Could I take that same road?

Would the truth set me free?

It’s alright!

(We've Got the Music!)

It’s alright!

(We've Got the Music!)

ii) Geronimo — The Sharp End Of A Legacy

Always in the darkness but always on the move

I stand in your great shadow with nothing left to prove

I wait for your attentions like a hapless little boy

Who just wants to be lie you

Who just wants to enjoy your respect, ah, nothing less!

So did I really waste it, the life I could have led?

As a lawyer or a preacher I could have tasted your success

Not lost with noisy rock bands on some fire escape in Leeds

Struggling with the Hammond and playing 'til my fingers bleed

To an empty room.

«Ah, it’ll all change soon!

I’ll show em!»

How can your legacy be not written by the ones who follow you?

Who follow you to the end of the world?

iii) Trucks And Rugs And Prog And Roll

In the days when music came «quickly from afar»

We heard your songs in wonder, (still wonder who you are)

Codpieces and capes,

and all the hotel japes

Your name emblazoned on the tops of your three trucks

And you’ve got roadies for your drugs and persian rugs

But on my French book, I’ll stil draw your logo late at night

To me you’re still thin, wearing flares, your hair in graceful flight

In the mirror they’re old… but not in the gatefold