| Maps on the back of your hands point to the cross
|
| Scratches on walls in a room draw out your loss
|
| Your islands are conquered and
|
| You are returned to the throne
|
| Martyrs take penance and
|
| Fill up the mattress with stones
|
| Pull straws with holy men
|
| Stain all the atlas pink
|
| And let us find a beach
|
| Where we can cross our hearts
|
| Stand in the wind as the carousels spin
|
| Wear out your welcome again
|
| Stand on the silence of mountains and
|
| Wear out your welcome again
|
| Mornings hit hard with an uncontrollable light
|
| Piercing the senses that click deep in the night
|
| Crouched in a pillow of straw feet on the floor
|
| Creeping a path to the mat that holds back the door
|
| Pull straws with holy men
|
| Stain all the atlas pink
|
| And let us find a beach
|
| Where we can cross our hearts
|
| Build up great railways that run
|
| Through the horns of the moon
|
| Hold up a city with cast iron museum walls
|
| Explain your machines to the boys feed them with tools
|
| Bring out the skill in your skin polish your hair
|
| Pull straws with holy men
|
| Stain all the atlas pink
|
| And let us find a beach
|
| Where we can cross our hearts
|
| Stand in the wind as the carousels spin
|
| Wear out your welcome again
|
| Stand on the silence of mountains
|
| And take a look down to the sea
|
| Stand in the wind as the carousels spin
|
| Wear out your welcome again
|
| Stand on the silence of mountains
|
| And take a look down to the sea |