| When the wild-eyed dogs of day to day
|
| Come snapping at your heels
|
| And there’s so much coming at you
|
| That you don’t know how to feel
|
| When they’ve taken all your money
|
| And then come back for your clothes
|
| When your hands are full of thorns
|
| But you can’t quit groping for the rose
|
| In the southland of the heart
|
| Where night blooms perfume the breeze
|
| Lie down
|
| Take your rest with me When thoughts you’ve tried to leave behind
|
| Keep sniping from the dark
|
| When the fire burns inside you but
|
| You jump from every spark
|
| When your heart’s beset by memories
|
| You wish you’d never made
|
| When the sun comes up an enemy
|
| And nothing gives you shade
|
| In the southland of the heart
|
| Where the saints go lazily
|
| Lie down
|
| Take your rest with me When the preacher lays his insight down
|
| And claims to lead the blind
|
| When those you trust just get you hooked
|
| And trifle with your mind
|
| When the nightmare’s creeping closer
|
| And your wheels are in the mud
|
| When everything’s ambiguous
|
| Except the taste of blood
|
| In the southland of the heart
|
| There’s no question of degree
|
| Lie down
|
| Take your rest with me In the southland of the heart
|
| Everyone was always free
|
| Lie down
|
| Take your rest with me |