Power. Gold. Fanatic religious.
The women who drown have proved they’re not witches
Fire purges – the stake is for sinners
The grip of the whip’s in the hand of the winner
Flaming speeches; the rabble’s aroused, and
Books and witches are burned by the thousand.
The machine keeps churning
Turning tricks and fixing fate
The lovers at the midnight burning
Never learning from the smoke of Hate,
From the smoke of Hate.
Kill thy neighbor, nobody’s minding
Love remains blind – the warhead is blinding
At the end of the day, the flowers in the rifles
Were just another protest, put out and stifled
The lovers, inflamed by political violence,
Stand and look at the pyres in silence.
The machine keeps churning
Anchored in its dire strait
The lovers at the midnight burning
Never learning from the smoke of Hate,
From the smoke of Hate.
Quislings brand their source of displeasure
The glow of the bomb is a mushroom of pressure
If manipulation’s the hand of instruction
It belongs to the god who’s the god of destruction
Smoke that signals disinformation
Now covers the scene of the fire occasion.
The machine keeps churning
The firemen arriving late
The lovers at the midnight burning
Never learning from the smoke of Hate,
From the smoke of Hate.
(CONTINUED)