We're all looking for that bigger high,
we're all looking for a match,
a retreat into a field of wine,
with a roof made out of thatch.

The gulls cry out across the quay,
a prayer naught but an angry mob;
they are searching for eternity,
they are doing it all for G-d.

The solider cries into his ballast sleep
in the analogue plains of war,
no poppy to **** the pain so steep,
no desire to ****, no more.

We're all looking for that higher love,
we're all looking for that 'it',
a life beyond land-mine and slaughter,
beyond false outrage and solemn submit.