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de Hawkwind

Limits of the infinite
Have never been defined
A spirit lies in atrophy
In a state to late to unwind
Trophies on the back shelves
Procreating all our race

Ideals of our fantasies
On which all things are based
Collecting every prospect
Running through your tests
With manikin expressions
They end up like the rest
In glass booths they're wired
With needles in their flesh

They're 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 (seven times)

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

Well, Necromancy lives forever
Preserved within a jar
(repeat six more times)

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