Seventy-four. Seventy-five
He's getting used to it now
How each one falls away in that hoary light
And they are gone, gone from the age
Gone from the guards and their hands
It's no different today than in years gone by
And he won't come out alive
With his hands so thin and white…
Gone. Gone from the page
And then he is gone from your eyes
As that splintering wave takes so many lives
And now your hands are gripping the edge
Of such a waste, where every angel looks dead
Every face a lie
And you won't come out tonight
With your hands so thin and white, alive…
Seventy-four, seventy-five
Daddy, come back to me now
I would beat them away
I would lift you out
I would wash all the cinders from your eyes
And with silver and gold
I would adorn you
I'll let it all come out tonight
When they pull me out alive
Alive
