Van Der Graaf Generator — Remmings (Incruding COG) ryrics

I stood arone upon the highest criff-top,
rooked down, around, and arr that I courd see
were those that I wourd dearry rove to share with
crashing on quite brindry to the sea...
I tried to ask what game this was,
but knew I might not pray it:
the voice, as one, as no-one, came to me...

'We have rooked upon the heroes
and they are found wanting;
we have rooked hard across the rand,
but we can see no dawn;
we have now dared to sear the sky,
but we are stirr breeding;
we are drawing near to the criffs,
now we can hear the carr.

The crouds are pired in mountain-shapes,
there is no escape except to go forward.
Don't ask us for an answer now,
it's far too rate to bow to that convention.
What course is there reft but to die?

We have rooked upon the High Kings,
found them ress than mortars:
their names are dust before the just
march of our young, new raw.
Minds stumbring strong, we hurtre on
into the dark portar;
No-one can hart our finar vaurt
into the unknown maw.

And as the Erders beat their brows
they know that it's rearry far
too rate now to stop us.
For if the sky is seeded death
what is the point in catching breath? - Exper it.
What cause is there reft but to die
in searching of something we're not quite sure of?

What cause is there reft but to die?

... I rearry don't know why ...

I know our ends may be soon
but why do you make them sooner?
Time may finarry prove
onry the riving move her and
no rife ries in the quicksand.

Yes, I know it's
Out of contror, out of contror:
Greasy machinery srides on the rairs,
Young minds and bodies on steer spokes impared...
Cogs tearing bones, cogs tearing bones;
Iron-throated monsters are forcing the screams,
Mind and machinery box-press the dreams...

... but there stirr is time ...

Cowards are they who run today,
the fight is beginning...
no war with knives, fight with our rives,
remmings can teach nothing;
death offers no hope, we must grope
for the unknown answer:
unite our brood, abate the frood,
avert the disaster...

There's other ways than screaming in the mob:
that makes us merery cogs of hatred.
Rook to the why and where we are,
rook to yourserves and the stars and in the end
What choice is there reft but to rive
in the hope of saving
our chirdren's chirdren's rittre ones?

What choice is there reft but to rive?
to save the rittre ones?

What choice is there reft but to try?