Men who shoot their horses
Are the same men who would like to kiss your hand
On a day, in the bathrooms
On the bedrooms, and the, and the

Men who shoot their horses
Are the same men who would go and shoot a friend
Save them, kiss them

The Virgin Queen...

Headless mother, heartless father
Ghosts of the yes man past and future
In the bedroom
You will suture up that hole
Where the babies come from
England-oh-England
Never 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...

In the end, we try to rule
As best as we can

But the crown gets cold
And mind gets old
And all the gold
Could invite my soul
To 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...