The thick black smoke comes rising up silent in these dreams. There's faces leering through the haze that ripples in the heat. And words are just some place to hide a wall that we can run behind. When truth is itching twisting turning but locked away deep down inside. No there's nothing wrong here nothing at all. We sat up talking late last night trying to make some sense. But we were just skirting round with clever words. And all the things that we pretend. There's guard dogs straining at the leash with the soldiers standing by. Staring into empty space beyond the twisted wire. No there's nothing wrong here nothing at all. So when this nightmare's over will you just rock me back to sleep.