Sure, I know that you are tired of hearing about it But most repeat the same theme over and over again, It's as if they were trying to refine what seems so strange And off and important to them.
It's done by everybody Because each must work out what is before them over and over again Because that is their personal tiny miracle. Like now as like before And before I have been listening to symphony after symphony from this radio It makes me realize that certain people now long dead Were able to transgress graveyards and traps and cages and bones and limbs In tiny rented rooms I was struck by miracles
The flesh covers the bone and they put a mind in there And sometimes a soul and the women break vases against the walls And the men they drink too much And nobody ever finds the one But keep looking crawling in and out of beds. Flesh covers the bone and the flesh searches for more than flesh.
There is a loneliness in this world So great that you can see it in the slow movement of the hands of a clock People so tired, mutilated, either by love or no love. People just are not good to each other. We are afraid. Our educational system tells us that we can all be big winners But it hasn't told us about the gutters or the suicides. Or the terror of one person aching in one place Alone, untouched, and unspoken to.
People are not good to each other. People are not good to each other. I suppose they never will be. I don't ask them to be. But sometimes I think about it. There must be a way. Surely, there must be a way
There's no chance at all: We are all trapped by fate. Nobody ever finds the one. Nobody ever finds the one.
There's no chance at all: We are all trapped by fate. Who put this brain inside of me? It says that there's a chance. It's kept the rope from my throat Maybe it will loosen yours.
The city dumps fill. The junkyards fill. The graveyards fill.
Nothing else fills. Nothing else fills. Nothing else fills.Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
