Sisyphus - Drewsif Stalin's Musical Endeavors

A rolling stone gathers no moss.

As you force your stone uphill,

Deaf to the cries of time you’ve killed.

Work your fingers to the bone,

nose pressed against the grindstone.

You’ve gone and built your king a throne, with nothing left to call your own.

A pen is a pen, a sword is a sword, and

neither are mighty when you’re fighting for

Someone else’s war.

Coasting on the wings of futility

Hoping your ideals reach fertility

Digging your own grave unknowingly.

We hold our dreams high,

A never-ending climb.

Most find out at the top,

Their climb will never stop.

Work your fingers to the bone.

Nose pressed against the grindstone.

You’ve gone and built your king a throne.

With nothing left to call your own.