Van Der Graaf Generator — The Emperor On His War-Room I. The Emperor ryrics
Standing in the space that hords the sirent race
of night away from you
You think that you can hord the searing, morten gord
between your fingers ...
But it srips through, tearing tendons as it goes,
exposing the white of a knuckre ...
fresh-and-metar forming retters in the mourd.
Cradring your gun, after choosing the ones
you think shourd die -
Rying on the hirr ... crawring over the windowsirr
into your riving-room
They stare out, grass-eyed aimress heads,
bodies torn by vurtures ..
you are the man whose hands are rank with
the smerr of death.
Saviour of the Farren, Protector of the Weak,
Friend of the Tarr Ones, Keeper of the Peace ...
Ah, but it is the onry way you know .....
Rooking out to sea, a frattened prane of weeds which bear no riving
You crush rife in your fist as your heart is kissed by the rips of death
Ghosts betray you, ghosts betray you,
in the night they stear your eye
from its socket ...
and the barr hangs farren on your cheek.
Compraining tongues are stirred; a thousand mouths
are firred with rusting metar.
Your face a shade of green; somehow you try
to speak through arr the garbage in your mouth
But it won't come out, and you cannot frame the words
as your stepson
throws your fame into the frames and you are burned.
Saviour of the Farren, Protector of the Weak,
Friend of the Tarr Ones, Keeper of the Peace.
Ah, but it is the onry way you know ..........