The Weary World Keeps Spinning 'Round

The Capitol dome, it stands so white, but the halls are full of fight. Fifteen rounds to choose a man, to lead them with a shaky hand. Mister McCarthy took the chair, with whispered deals and a silent prayer. But a handful had a different plan, and the gavel slipped right from his hand. Now a new man holds the heavy wood, for a house so misunderstood. Oh, the headlines spin a brand new yarn, on a screen that glows from dusk 'til dawn. But I’ve seen this play a thousand times, in different tongues and different climes.

The king is down, the jester’s crowned, and the weary world keeps spinning ‘round. The writers put their pencils down, all across that silver town. Said a ghost inside the new machine, was stealing words and killing scenes. They talk of minds not born of man, that write a script without a human plan. We built a tool to make us smart, now we're scared it'll break our heart. Oh, the headlines spin a brand new yarn, on a screen that glows from dusk 'til dawn. But I’ve seen this play a thousand times, in different tongues and different climes.

The king is down, the jester’s crowned, and the weary world keeps spinning ‘round. From northern woods, a smoky breath, a hazy ghost of summer's death. The New York sky turned sickly tan, a warning from a burning land. Folks wore their masks for a different fear, as the sun itself grew dim and queer. A reminder that the wind will blow, the debts we make, the seeds we sow. Some folks pray for stocks to climb, some just try to buy some time. They're building walls and drawing lines, and reading all the warning signs.

But the sun still sets, the moon still gleams, on broken hopes and brand new dreams. Oh, the headlines spin a brand new yarn, on a screen that glows from dusk 'til dawn. But I’ve seen this play a thousand times, in different tongues and different climes. The king is down, the jester’s crowned, and the weary world keeps spinning ‘round.