| You turn your head from him
|
| There’s always things
|
| That can’t be said
|
| But Joseph holds
|
| The key to them
|
| He lays these songs on your tongue
|
| But its time to pay
|
| For what you’ve done
|
| Your scattered holes in unpaid debts
|
| Are all cataloged
|
| In Joseph’s head
|
| Your brother is drunk here at your side
|
| Waiting for your breath of life
|
| But how can you sing what you know to be fake
|
| You’ll never wash Joseph’s mouth of your face
|
| First scratch into this dusty wooden stage
|
| A History of your best and wasted days
|
| There is no place to run from Joseph’s truth
|
| His hands are on your throat, but feeding you
|
| May the river tie a rope around your feet
|
| And drag your mind and body out to sea
|
| Then thank the sky with colors, down from below
|
| The universal mud where Joseph grows |