The man of a thousand faces Sits down at the table Eats a small lump of sugar And smiles at the moon like he knows her And begins his quiet ascension Without anyone's sturdy instruction To a place of no religion Has found a path to our alikeness
His words are quiet like stains are On a table cloth washed in a river Stains that are trying to cover, for each other Or at least blend in with the pattern Good is better than perfect Scrub til your fingers are bleeding And I'm crying for things that I tell others to do without crying
He used to go to his favorite bookstores And rip out his favorite pages And stuff them into his breast pocket And the moon to him was a stranger Now he sits down at the table Right next to the window And begins his quiet ascension Without anyone's sturdy instruction To a place of no religion Has found a path to our alikeness And eats a small lump of sugar And smiles at the moon like he knows herTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
