Heads - Hawkwind

Our limits of the infinite have never been defined

Spirit lies in atrophy in a state too late to unwind

Trophies on the back shelf procreating all our race

Ideals of our fantasies on which all things are based

Collecting every prospect, run them through your texts

With Mallachian expressions they end up like the rest

In glass booths they’re wired with needles in their flesh

Pickled for posterity and eternally refreshed

So link yourself to others, talk yourself to sleep

It’s all so superficial, no use for you to weep

No use for you to weep, no use for you to weep

No use for you to weep, no use for you to weep

No use for you to weep, no use for you to weep

So place your trust in science for it has come so far

Where necromancy lives forever preserved within a jar

Where necromancy lives forever preserved within a jar

Necromancy lives forever preserved within a jar

Necromancy lives forever preserved within a jar

Necromancy lives forever preserved within a jar

Necromancy lives forever preserved within a jar

Necromancy lives forever preserved within a jar