I fight black & white wars with bloodless decors against Harvard and Oxford and Russian elite. And now I'm left my last man via the slip of my hand, or should I say my mind. I wonder. I've only 21 spaces to run from defeat across checkerboard squares, mathematical retreat.
They treated my pawns like pawns. My castles crumbled at dawn. After hours of tension it's down to the chase, stalemate. Run king run, 21 run. Never look back and run king run, 21 run.
Hells bells are ringing the start of my play, their sound gets sweeter the longer I stay. 15 & 14 & 13 I count, now a halo of angels has circled about. I see dusk, dawn, planning and plots, now I'm tired of running I'm tired of thoughts. To the borders I run, disarray has begun. My equations are useless and useless is logic now shun.
I'm dodging the angels that pass through my space and watching the corners where horses do race. Their queen is like Medusa, I can't stand in her stare. This greatest of players is faced with despair.
Undefeated I must maintain, fall to no man. Look for an answer in the opposing eyes. But no man graces the opposing side. Only lights blinking, circuits thinking. Now man kind rests on my shoulders. Will technology be taking us over. The 21 run's down to 1. How long can we hold it back?Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
