Текст песни Patient - Peter Hammill
A
system
in
the
making,
Self-healing
for
the
blind,
Sitting
in
the
waiting-room
Of
the
patient
mind;
Raging
at
the
illness
When
the
rage
may
be
its
cause,
The
purpose
of
the
will
is
lost
In
the
search
for
an
escape
clause,
In
the
search
for
an
escape
clause.
Fatal
convalescence,
The
wound
becomes
a
weal;
The
poison
is
in
essence
just
The
virus
of
the
real.
But
there's
sympathetic
healing,
The
power
of
the
soul
bandages,
Concealing
all
that
we
can't
control,
All
that
we
can't
control.
Waiting
for
the
doctor
to
come.
Waiting
for
the
doctor
to
come.
Waiting
for
the
doctor
to
come.
Waiting
for
the
doctor
to
come.
A
system
in
the
making,
Self-healing
for
the
blind,
Sitting
in
the
waiting-room
Of
the
patient
mind...
But
there
isn't
any
answer
The
consciousness
can
quote
When
the
loaded
dice
of
chance
are
there,
Rattling
in
the
throat,
Rattling
in
the
throat.
Waiting
for
the
doctor
to
come.
Waiting
for
the
doctor
to
come.
Waiting
for
the
doctor
to
come.
Waiting
for
the
doctor
to
come.
You
put
your
faith
in
others;
The
fear
could
not
be
worse,
But
Nature's
not
your
mother
now,
Just
your
suckling
nurse.
There
isn't
any
doctor,
There
isn't
any
cure...
That
might
come
as
a
shock
to
you,
But
can
you
really
be
so
sure?
Can
you
really
be
so
sure?
Can
you
really
be
sure?
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