Men who shoot their horses
Are the same men who would like to kiss your hand
On a day, in the ballrooms
In the bedrooms, and the, and the
Men who shoot their horses
Are the same men who would go and shoot a friend
Save them from killing, my husband from killing
The Virgin Queen
The Virgin Queen
The Virgin Queen
Headless mother, heartless father
Ghosts of the yes-men past and future
In the bedroom
You will suture up that hole
Where thе babies come from
England, oh, England
Nevеr forsake me
Won’t you take me to have and to hold
I may be a cruel, crude woman
But in the distance I hear Shakespeare mumbling
“Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
Or to take arms against a sea of
Troubled, troubled, troubles”
England, England
Never forsake me
Won’t you take me to have and to hold
I can hear the voices rising
The Virgin Queen
The Virgin Queen
The Virgin Queen
The Virgin Queen
In the end, I try to rule
As best as I can
But the crown gets cold
And mind gets old
And all the gold
Could invite our souls
For a place to come home to
In the end, is just a bed
And the things we made
Have begun to fade
On the distant shores new voices are rising…
The Virgin Queen
The Virgin Queen
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