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