Station کے بول

Every thought's a game A pack of chimps I cannot tame You're wondering who to blame Now your ride has come up lame Fortres full of hate Fears and hopes all pound the gate To early, it's too late What is evil, which is great? Pigs are sheep and cats are dogs And thoughts are made of Lincoln Logs To tend to the mice and wood Where black is blue and bad is good Thoughts that I keep my money in Melt some wax and chunks of tin Forget your name, how to walk and ignore The light shining in from under the door Thoughts like a thread through a foam device Liquid bread and rubber ice Make a promise, grow teeth, go to bed Wake up when you're dead