The wall on which the prophets wrote is cracking at the seams
Upon the instruments of death the sunlight brightly gleams
Confusion will be my epitaph
If we make it we can all sit back and laugh but I fear tomorrow I'll be crying
Between the iron gates of fate the seeds of time were sown
And watered by the deeds of those who know and who are known
Confusion will be my epitaph
If we make it we can all sit back and laugh but I fear tomorrow I'll be crying