2 minuten stilte

(ingevuld met een deel van Mervyn Peake's London Fantasy, briljant op muziek gezet door Roger Taylor)

But for the fact that the eye can cease to respond
The brain to absorb, the heart to miss a beat
The spirit to launch itself at hazardous speculation
That surely the weird creatures that make up
This dark hive called London, or for that matter the world
It would lie spread before us every day such it seemed
It haunts the brains of magnates
The delirium of heads and brains and hands
The camalcade hardly to be suffered
The very implessness of its inventive fantasy

Clay miracles float by in a hundred lights
The eyes of constellations swarm through London
Sight becomes cluttered, there is no end to it
Beneath the electric glare and the fog
In downpouring sunlight and fire light
In wind and sun rise are at dusk
There is no end