Sisyphus

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

We hold our dreams high

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.