ILLUSIONS

There's a red ribbon cowering underneath a heap of twisted scrap metal
Rust pass for color, cast iron pass for rose petals
And what passes for grace and understanding
Is just luck out of place and underhanded remarks
You approach, hear the watchdog barking
  
   It's all
   So hard to hold
   So far, so bold
   Say don't you know
   It's all illusions

So you keep down your lawn every Saturday as clock strikes half seven
And you moan about the look to make sure you get your congratulations
And your front room's cleaner than a wash-freak's wet dream
And no one'll ever look closer at the bursting at the seams
And keep your voice well raised so you won't hear the town crier's screams

   It's all...

But there's a room at the back that you never ever enter
Where you hide the wailing cries of the disgruntled dissenters
Where the corners house ghostly shapes
That eat out from the inside way
And keep you always out of bay

'Cause what would people say if they saw weeds growing out around your station
You couldn't claim your just reward of unconditional adulation
I hear the people talking, you listen to what they say
And that's your be-all & end-all until judgement day
Turn your back and flee conceitedly and listen to me saying

   It's all...


Words and music by Tor Kristian Berg
©2004