mangrum887

The monkey sat on a pile of stones
He stared at the broken bone in his hand
The strains of a Vianese quartet moved out across the land
And he thought to himself:

Memory is a stranger
History is for fools

He cleaned his hand in a pool
Of holy writing
Turned his back on the garden
And headed out for the nearest town

When you add it all up
The tears and the marrow bone
There's an ounze of gold
And an ounze of pride in each ledger

And the Germans kill the Jews
And the Jews kill the Arabs
And the Arabs kill the hostages
And that is the news

Is it any wonder that the monkey's confused?


-Roger Waters