| Hands in Line
|
| Arms close to my side
|
| I’m fighting tides
|
| Of an ocean’s undertow
|
| And I figure that I might not make it
|
| I’m taking empty but seldom speaking
|
| And the words retreat
|
| Yeah, they breath in histories
|
| Still at ease
|
| And the story’s untold
|
| And my arms unfold
|
| My hands are high
|
| And I’m holding on, I’m holding out
|
| And I figure that I
|
| Figure that I just might make it
|
| And I’m waking empty but seldom sleeping
|
| And the words repeat breathing histories
|
| Into stories untold but I unfold
|
| See now quality is what you see now
|
| In the corner of your eye
|
| And don’t be surprised
|
| If you hear the bells ring
|
| As they form from the sky
|
| They sound bong, bong, bong, bong, ba da
|
| Yea yea bong, bong, bong, bong ba da yea, yea
|
| And I’m always holding on
|
| And I’m already holding out
|
| Said I’m holding out your side
|
| And I’m holding out this time
|
| Cause I figure that I, and I figure that I
|
| Just might make it and I’m
|
| Waking empty but seldom sleeping
|
| And the words repeat breathin histories untold
|
| But I unfold |