The Emperor in His War-Room [The Peel Sessions] Peter Hammill

[I. The Emperor]

[Verse 1]
Standing in the space that holds the silent lace of night away from you
You think that you can hold the searing, molten gold between your fingers
But it slips through, tearing tendons as it goes, exposing the white of a knuckle:
Flesh and metal forming letters in the mould

[Verse 2]
Cradling your gun, after choosing the ones you think should die;
Lying on the hill, crawling over the windowsill into your living room
They stare out, glass-eyed aimless heads, bodies torn by vultures
You are the man whose hands are rank with the smell of death

[Verse 3]
Complaining tongues are stilled;
A thousand mouths are filled with rusting metal
Your face a shade of green, somehow you try to speak through all the garbage in your mouth
But it won't come out and you cannot frame the words as your stepson throws your fame into the flames and you are burned

[Bridge]
Saviour of the Fallen
Protector of the Weak
Friend of the Tall Ones
Keeper of the Peace
Ah, but it is the only way you know