| I’ve been confused, and do not grieve to admit it
|
| Those who are so true convinced are standing on a leaking ship
|
| Concealed, by some hidebound definition
|
| The sand we’re standing on will show us, that it’s not some rock that owns us
|
| Now, endless summer dries you up, underneath the browning sky
|
| You live where birds don’t chose to fly
|
| But I’ve seen, the rat among the dreams
|
| The fly in every ointment and the crude oil in the cream
|
| Do not write lyrics for this song
|
| I’d rather swing a sword of dust than blow the golden horn
|
| (Where did we go wrong?)
|
| A cloud may wear a lining but still it holds a storm
|
| And I know that nothing good is going to happen but I don’t know when
|
| The brown dove takes its flight
|
| From the hotel parking lot
|
| The others get bled white, and tagged when they are caught
|
| Behind the color chrome house
|
| The calf is whining low
|
| Like a drunk who makes his crying
|
| Among the church’s silent rows
|
| Crossmaker wordtaker say
|
| Why not that heavy other way
|
| Out from the eye in a ray
|
| Why not that heavy other way
|
| Whitebled
|
| Sensitive subject
|
| No-one's trying
|
| Any other way
|
| Whitebled
|
| Sensitive subject
|
| No-one's trying
|
| Any other way
|
| Whitebled
|
| Men cost money
|
| Mausoleum
|
| Heavier the tomb
|
| When I spit out the medicine, of the cross and weary way
|
| And the fog lifts up and leaves us, we notice that it’s day
|
| And every worn-in delusion is naked and exposed
|
| The terrified myth is crownless, groundless, only feeling cold
|
| Whitebled
|
| Sensitive subject
|
| No-one's trying
|
| Any other way
|
| Whitebled
|
| Sensitive subject
|
| No-one's trying
|
| Any other way
|
| Whitebled |