A rolling stone gathers no moss
As you force your stone uphill
Deaf to the cries of time you've killed

Work your fingers to the bone
Nose pressed against the grindstone
You've gone and built your king a throne
With nothing left to call your own

A pen is a pen, a sword is a sword, and
Neither are mighty when you're fighting for
Someone else's war

Coasting on the wings of futility
Hoping your ideals reach fertility
Digging your own grave unknowingly

We hold our dreams high
A never-ending climb
Most find out at the top
Their climb will never stop

Work your fingers to the bone
Nose pressed against the grindstone
You've gone and built your king a throne
With nothing left to call your own