From the Arizona desert To the Salisbury Plain Lights on the horizon Patterns on the grain Anxious eyes turned upward Clutching souvenirs Carrying our highest hopes and our darkest fears
They swear there was an accident back in '47 Little man with a great big head Splattered down from heaven Government conspiracy; cover-ups and lies Hidden in the desert under endless skies
Well, it's a cold, cold, cold, cold, cold, cold, cold, cold Post, postmodern world No time for heroes, no place for good guys No room for Rocky The Flying Squirrel
They're not here, they're not coming Not in a million years Turn your weary eyes back homeward Stop your trembling, dry your tears You may see the heavens flashing You may hear the cosmos humming But I promise you, my brother They're not here, they're not coming
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