It’s a holy place if you see it that way
Then they rattle the bones and the analysts play
In his backward collar on a worn out book
Another working class poet with an abstract look
Well, shake your hair and rattle your cans
It’s a service funded by a self-made man
Talks to victims and industrial spies
And he rolls tobacco for the four-minute mile
Here comes a time
Comes a time, that we only see
Here comes a time
Comes a time, when the west is free
It’s a holy place if you see it that way
Then they rattle the bones and the analysts play
In his backward collar on a worn out book
Another working class poet with an abstract look
When the African general meets the bingo queen
And the collective farmer joins the teenage dream
Here comes a time
Comes a time, that we only see
Here comes a time
Comes a time, when the west is free
Here comes a time
Comes a time, that we only see
Here comes a time
Comes a time, when the west is free
When the African general meets the bingo queen
And the collective farmer joins the teenage dream