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[Spoken:] "Would you like another cup of tea, dear?"
"Er, no, no, no, I'll better go actually, I'll be late for the office",
I'll take you down to that bright city mile
there to powder your sweet face and paint on a smile,
that will show all of the pleasures and none of the pain,
when you join my explosion and play with my games.
WarChild dance the days, and dance the nights away.
WarChild dance the days, and dance the nights away.
No unconditional surrender; no armistice day
each night I'll die in my contentment and lie in your grave.
While you bring me water and I give you wine.
Let me dance in your tea-cup and you shall swim in mine.
WarChild dance the days, and dance the nights away.
Open your windows and I'll walk through your doors.
Let me live in your country let me sleep by your shores.
WarChild dance the days, and dance the nights away.
WarChild dance the days, and dance the nights away.
WarChild dance the days, and dance the nights away.
WarChild dance the days, and dance the nights away.
The wind is on the river and the tide has turned too late,
so we're sailing for another shore where some other ladies wait.
To throw us silken whispers: catch us by the anchor chains,
but we all laugh so politely and we sail on just the same
for Queen and Country in the long dying day,
And it's been this way for five long years, since we signed our souls away.
We bring back gold and ivory; rings of diamonds; strings of pearls
make presents to the government so they can have their social whirl
with Queen and Country in the long dying day.
And it's been this way for five long years since we signed our souls away.
They build schools and they build factories, with the spoils of battles won.
And we remain their pretty sailor boys, hold our heads up to the gun.
Of Queen and Country in the long dying day.
And it's been this way for five long years since we signed our souls away.
To Queen and Country in the long dying day.
And it's been this way for five long years since we signed our souls away.
Ladies of leisure,
with their eyes on the back roads.
All looking for strangers,
to whom they extend welcomes
With a smile and a glimpse of
pink knees and elbows;
Of satin and velvet
good ladies, good fortune.
Ladies.
They sing of their heroes:
of solitary soldiers
Invested in good health
and manner most charming.
Whose favors are numbered
(none the less well intended)
By hours in a minute;
by those ladies who bless them.
Ladies.
In and out of the front door,
ran twelve back-door angels.
Their hair was a golden-brown
they didn't see me wink my eye.
`Tis said they put we men to sleep
with just a whisper,
And touch the heads of dying dogs
and make them linger.
They carry their candles high
and they light the dark hours.
And sweep all the country clean
with pressed and scented wild-flowers.
They grow all their roses red,
and paint our skies blue
drop one penny in every second bowl
make half the beggars lose,
why do the faithful have such a will
to believe in something?
And call it the name they choose,
having chosen nothing.
Think I'll sit down and invent some fool
some Grand Court Jester.
And next time the die is cast,
he'll throw a six or two.
In and out of the back-door ran
one front-door angel,
Her hair was a golden-brown
she smiled and I think she winked her eye.
Over the mountains, and under the sky
riding dirty gray horses, go you and I.
Mating with chance, copulating with mirth
the sad-glad paymasters (for what it's worth).
The ice-cream castles are refrigerated;
the super-marketeers are on parade.
There's a golden handshake hanging round your neck,
as you light your cigarette on the burning deck.
And you balance your world on the tip of your nose
like a SeaLion with a ball, at the carnival.
You wear a shiny skin and a funny hat
the Almighty Animal Trainer lets it go at that.
You bark ever-so-slightly at the Trainer's gun,
with you whiskers melting in the noon-day sun.
You flip and you flop under the Big White Top
where the long-legged ring-mistress starts and stops.
But you know, after all, the act is wearing thin
as the crowd grows uneasy and the boos begin.
But you balance your world on the tip of your nose
you're a SeaLion with a ball at the carnival.
Just a trace of pride upon our fixed grins
for there is no business like the show we're in.
There is no reason, no rhyme, no right
to leave the circus `til we've said good-night.
The same performance, in the same old way;
it's the same old story to this Passion Play.
So we'll shoot the moon, and hope to call the tune
and make no pin cushion of this big balloon.
Look how we balance the world on the tips of our noses,
like SeaLions with a ball at the carnival.
Skating Away On The Thin Ice Of The New Day 
Meanwhile back in the year One,
when you belonged to no-one,
you didn't stand a chance son,
if your pants were undone.
`Cause you were bred for humanity
and sold to society
one day you'll wake up
in the Present Day
a million generations removed from expectations of being who you really want to be.
Skating away, skating away,
skating away on the thin ice of the New Day.
So as you push off from the shore,
won't you turn your head once more
and make your peace with everyone?
For those who choose to stay,
will live just one more day
to do the things they should have done.
And as you cross the wilderness,
spinning in your emptiness:
you feel you have to pray.
Looking for a sign that the Universal Mind has written you into the Passion Play.
Skating away, skating away,
skating away on the thin ice of the New Day.
And as you cross the circle line,
the ice-wall creaks behind
you're a rabbit on the run.
And the silver splinters fly
in the corner of your eye
shining in the setting sun.
Well, do you ever get the feeling that the story's too damn real and in the present tense?
Or that everybody's on the stage, and it seems like you're the only person sitting in the audience?
Skating away, skating away,
skating away on the thin ice of the New Day.
Skating away, skating away , skating away
Walking through forests of palm tree apartments
scoff at the monkeys who live in their dark tents
down by the waterhole, drunk every Friday,
eating their nuts saving their raisins for Sunday.
Lions and tigers who wait in the shadows,
they're fast but they're lazy, and sleep in green meadows.
Let's bungle in the jungle
well, that's all right by me.
I'm a tiger when I want love,
but I'm a snake if we disagree.
Just say a word and the boys will be right there:
with claws at your back to send a chill through the night air.
Is it so frightening to have me at your shoulder?
Thunder and lightning couldn't be bolder.
I'll write on your tombstone, "I thank you for dinner."
This game that we animals play is a winner.
Let's bungle in the jungle
well, that's all right by me.
I'm a tiger when I want love,
but I'm a snake if we disagree.
The rivers are full of crocodile nasties
and He who made kittens put snakes in the grass.
He's a lover of life but a player of pawns
yes, the King on His sunset lies waiting for dawn
to light up His Jungle as play is resumed.
The monkeys seem willing to strike up the tune.
Let's bungle in the jungle
well, that's all right by me.
I'm a tiger when I want love,
but I'm a snake if we disagree.
Brain-storming habit-forming battle-warning weary
winsome actor spewing spineless chilling lines.
The critics falling over to tell themselves he's boring
and really not an awful lot of fun.
Well who the hell can he be when he's never had V.D.,
and he doesn't even sit on toilet seats?
Court-jesting, never-resting he must be very cunning
to assume an air of dignity
and bless us all with his oratory prowess,
his lame-brained antics and his jumping in the air.
And every night his act's the same
and so it must be all a game of chess he's playing
[spoken] "But you're wrong, Steve: you see, it's only solitaire."
Hoorah!
WarChild, dance the days and nights away
sweet child, how do you do today?
WarChild, dance the days and nights away
sweet child, how do you do today?
When your back's to the wall,
and your luck is your all,
then side with whoever you may.
Seek that which within lies waiting to begin
the fight of your life that is everyday.
Dance with the WarChild, the WarChild, Hoorah.
Dance with the WarChild, the WarChild, Hoorah.
WarChild, dance the days and nights away
sweet child, how do you do today?
WarChild, dance the days and nights away
sweet child, how do you do today?
In the heart of your heart, there's the tiniest part
of an urge to live to the death
with a sword on your hip and a cry on your lips
to strike life in the inner child's breast.
Dance with the WarChild, the WarChild, Hoorah.
Dance with the WarChild, the WarChild, Hoorah.
WarChild, dance the days and nights away
sweet child, how do you do today?
WarChild, dance the days and nights away
sweet child, how do you do today?
I'll see you at the Weighing-In,
when your life's sum-total's made.
And you set your wealth in Godly deeds
against the sins you've laid.
And you place your final burden
on your hard-pressed next of kin:
Send the chamber-pot back down the line
to be filled up again.
And the hard-headed miracle worker
who bathes his hands in blood,
Will welcome you to the final "nod"
and cover you with mud.
And he'll say, "You really should make the deal,''
as he offers round the hat.
"Well, you'd better lick two fingers clean
He'll thank you all for that.''
As you slip on the greasy platform,
and you land upon your back,
You make a wish and you wipe your nose
upon the railway track.
While the high-strung locomotive,
with furnace burning bright,
Lumbers on you wave goodbye
and the sparks fade into night.
And as you join the Good Ship Earth,
and you mingle with the dust,
you'd better leave your underpants
with someone you can trust.
And when the Old Man with the telescope
cuts the final strand
you'd better lick two fingers clean,
before you shake his hand.
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Next album: Minstrel In The Gallery