| You are everywhere, within and without
|
| Where it don’t matter what we used to do now
|
| Where I feed my people, when I get behind the plow
|
| When I write the tiger hanging on by his eyebrows
|
| Somehow where the gang in me
|
| Is being all that it can be
|
| Somehow part hope is a plan
|
| And part vigilante streak
|
| When I reel my Irish in
|
| When I sleep on the train
|
| In straight lines through shadows, you’re there
|
| Where the future lies
|
| Under no moon at night
|
| At the ballroom hanging, you’re there
|
| You are there when I stop writing things down
|
| And when I forget about who I am now
|
| Forget about who’s kissing her and who’s behind my plow
|
| Now it’s time to drown all of that poetry out
|
| Somehow where democracy
|
| Is how we all learn to sleep
|
| With ourselves drawing to ourselves
|
| Everything we can carry
|
| When I reel my Irish in
|
| When I sleep in the rain
|
| In straight lines through shadows, you’re there
|
| Where the future lies
|
| Under no moon at night
|
| At the ballroom hanging, you’re there
|
| There’s no escaping
|
| This dream we’re dancing
|
| With no distractions
|
| When I reel my Irish in
|
| When I sleep on the plane
|
| In straight lines through shadows, you’re there
|
| Where the future lies
|
| Under no moon at night
|
| At the ballroom hanging, you’re there
|
| You’re everywhere
|
| You’re there
|
| You’re everywhere
|
| You’re there
|
| You’re everywhere
|
| You’re there
|
| You’re everywhere
|
| You’re there |