Hear the might choire of the rolling waves, ( chanting ? )
seamingly uncaring heading for their certain graves.
A million hollow people in the wind,
running for their caves.
A million memorable melodies migeling,
to the choire of the slaves.

Roll on world,
Roll on world,
Roll on... World.

Hear the soft silent singing of the lonely bird,
whispering those secret words only you could have heard.
Like the unnoticed candle,
of a waking soul,
with newfound colors washing,
the pictures ( canvas? ) whole.

Roll on world,
Roll on world,
Roll on... World.

Times change too fast,
nothing will last.  
Times change too slow,
nothing will grow.

Hear the wild and roaring thunder and the wind,
crushing your mighty wisdom with a simple spin.
Like we leave the broken, burning, battered,
and the beaten down,
we'll be left with nothing but a shread of life,
on the outskirts of town.

Roll on world,
Roll on world,
Roll on... World.

Times change too fast,
nothing will last.  
Times change too slow,
nothing will grow.