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lyrics: J. Morse © 1986 Concrete claws scrape the night On Manhattan Island Drifts of dark haze rule the air From traffic on Broadway And the residents lock-lock-lock their doors Afraid of their own reflections Are these the wages of our freedom? Is this our own reward? Houses guard the hills at night Off Sunset Boulevard Los Angeles rambles on Oblivious to the rest of the world But are those fragile structures Stable through the tremors? Is this the price for our expansion? Is this our own reward? All these things Defenseless against the tide Our minds are weapons But so is the land Cathedrals ward off the night And the Bishop of Rome prays on But the Vatican air Is heavy with tension Could this be the next Target for terrorism Is this the result of our arrogance? Is this our own reward...? |