mott the hoople
road to birmingham
(ian hunter)  His feet lay heavy on the road that led to birmingham Unseeing eyes, defeated cries, the mysteries of men. Many hears, the helpless tears that leave the troubled brow A man once tall, he fought them, but he is older now.  For in your youth, you think the truth will always win the game Some men are kings, some men are rook, some men are pawns to blame But if your skin is coloured black, well the dice are hidden in The minds of fools who twist the rules, so you can never win  Birmingham, birmingham, underneath your face There's nothing but a space - you're hollow.  Unlighted sky, begins to cry, the shabby coat is weak And homes with windows dressed in warmth, and mouths that never speak His mind is dead, his visions spread that pass before his feet And thankfully he wears that dream that shields him from the street  Goodnight my friend, this is the end, you'll never cry again You'll never have to smile away the bastards and the pain Is it too late, or can you wait to take another turn And walk together down that road that leads to birmingham  Birmingham, birmingham, underneath your face There's nothing but a space - inside you.  Birmingham, birmingham, underneath your face There's nothing but a space - you're hollow. 