Every Generation Throws A Hero Up The

The Leaves That Are Green Turn To Brown. And They Wither With The Wind. And They Crumble In Your Hand.

Somewhere In A Burst Of Glory / Sound Becomes A Song.

These Are The Days Of Lasers In The Jungle, Staccato Signals Of Constant Information.

The Record Company Stay Out Of My Way. Whenever The Record Is Finished, They Take It.

The Trick Is, As I Know It, Is To Care Like Hell And Not Give A Damn At The Same Time.