| Well it would take a mountain of men to move me
|
| And that’d be a long way from the way that you spoke
|
| In your head so clearly without break or breath
|
| Or words redefining
|
| I was stuck on my pride
|
| And the skin
|
| And the sinking it in
|
| And you told me
|
| «Wipe your brow, clean me off
|
| Give me time to figure it out.»
|
| Some songs we could sing, and never mean it
|
| Some songs leave a ring
|
| And you hate the few who were bold
|
| Some burn up the sleeve
|
| And drive too far to remember
|
| Well I wasn’t lost, I was here
|
| I was three fingers in
|
| I was the junkyard, and the bumper
|
| For the few feeling left
|
| I was the cold nail, and the ice
|
| On the sheets of the trenched and the soaking wet
|
| Well it’d be the bit and the reins
|
| That broke all the teeth in the mouth
|
| And it’d be the whip, on the foreskin
|
| For the few that had some left
|
| To spare
|
| Some songs we could sing, and never mean it
|
| Some songs leave a ring
|
| And you hate the few who were bold
|
| Some burn up the sleeve
|
| And drive too far to remember |