When The Laughter Stops (feat. Yard Act)

When The Laughter Stops (feat. Yard Act)

I got the call for the audition
It was the chance of a lifetime
It said: If all requirements of this role come to fruition
You'll never work another day in your life
So I let my hair grow wrong, don't shave my face
I got some brand-new boots and gained a bit of weight
But when I finally got the script in for the role which I was hoping
It said I'd play the victim, shot dead in the cold open

Time's up, don't be scared
The future's got a room without a view in your own head
Head down, no comment
It's just a matter of opinion

Don't let no one ever know about the burden that you're smuggling
You dry your eyes at the gate to hide the struggling
The stories that you're juggling
The fear you must be funnelling
Bury till you're burrowing
Pain is such a funny thing
No one needs to know about the burden that you're smuggling
You dry your eyes at the gate to hide the struggling
The stories that you're juggling
The fear you must be funnelling
Bury till you're burrowing
Pain is such a funny thing

So let them replicate my past success
With casting from the same subset of men
Whose fleeting failures are all they ever knew
With a straight face beyond repair digging a grave of nil despair
Between the crosshairs of a crop that never grew
We pay no respect to common intellect
And watch the insects suck the marrow from the bone
For when we go back to our proper jobs and realise the laughter's stopped
I need to know my chance was fully blown

Don't let no one ever know about the burden that you're smuggling
You dry your eyes at the gate to hide the struggling
The stories that you're juggling
The fear you must be funnelling
Bury till you're burrowing
Pain is such a funny thing
No one needs to know about the burden that you're smuggling
You dry your eyes at the gate to hide the struggling
The stories that you're juggling
The fear you must be funnelling
Bury till you're burrowing
Pain is such a funny thing

Time's up, don't be scared
Head down, no comment
It's all a matter of opinion
To the last syllable of recorded time
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death
Out, out, brief candle
Life's but a walking shadow
A poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more
It is a tale told by an idiot
Full of sound and fury, signifying nothing