Paroles de I've Got So Many Prospects but All of Them...
What have I done? a man exclaimed as he ruptured the gold veins.Three men below. a collapse of stone, smoke and ash.
Son, take my hand, I can't hold on too long.
His breath was short and the air soon grew thin.
We left at dawn to dig up the earth for precious metals.
There's money to be made.
Our children can't support themselves so we pick away by lantern light.
It's an open grave at the prospect of new life where all will be saved.
But the hammer struck too hard.
I always told myself I would get out of this town.
I've got maps on the wall and the bus stop was just down the road.
It's a dead end job, I know.
But, around here it's the life we come from.
There is no light at the end of this tunnel.
The structure was weakened,
before it seized us all.
So what happened to the old gambler?
A string of three lights reduced two whispers.
Was he waiting for his big break?
A crack in the caves walls revealing fool's gold.
My eyes can't adjust to this kind of darkness.
My mind has played out every ending. and our legs have no feeling at all.
This slow drip has become our clock,
but we've forgotten is it days, or is it months?
And Although you've toiled,
your rigid hands have reached no real depth.
Raised, not to slander your name.
For when we all pass away
they will speak of what I have done.
It's an open grave at the prospect of new life where all will be saved.
But the hammer struck too hard.
I always told myself I would get out of this town.
I've got maps on the wall and the bus stop was just down the road.
It's a dead end job, I know.
But, around here it's the life we come from.
There is no light at the end of this tunnel.
The structure was weakened,
before it seized us all.
So what happened to the old gambler?
A string of three lights reduced two whispers.
Was he waiting for his big break?
A crack in the caves walls revealing fool's gold.
My eyes can't adjust to this kind of darkness.
My mind has played out every ending. and our legs have no feeling at all.
This slow drip has become our clock,
but we've forgotten is it days, or is it months?
And Although you've toiled,
your rigid hands have reached no real depth.
Raised, not to slander your name.
For when we all pass away
they will speak of what I have done.
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