LYRIC

In bed with cold
Brittle and old like
The Dead Sea scrolls
His weak pulse
Shakes his whole
Frame, shame
Same bones and sloped
Narrow shoulders of a
Woman on a wagon
Heading west
Bound homeward

Folks he knows
Say he's gotta let go
Be released of the
Anger at least‚ jeez
But it's burrowed
Deep in his soul
Hidden like a
Pebble in snow
(Yo!)

(Yo!)
Baby's been
Born with a beard
Worn and haggard
Weird and jagged in crowds
He stammers profoundly
Even amongst friends
And locks up like a
Tin ornithopter
Too tightly wound

He's lonesome and wanting
Groping for something
Foraging closeness
From shadows retreating
And like a pro-
Foundly confused
Infant in the endless cold
Night‚ he finally finds his own
Thumb‚ and numbs
Himself back into sleep

He says
"What an old and strange
Son's life is mine
When I come off stage
They stand in line
To meet me"

"When I come off stage
They stand in line
What an old and strange
Son's life is mine"

The surgeon nervously goes on
He never claimed to be God…

"Just a vessel for impulse
Pressing into several directions
Dressing and undressing
The wound I'm used to"
Voom-voom, voom-voom, voom
"Who do I tell the truth to?"

"Just a vessel for impulse
Pressing into several directions
Dressing and undressing
The wound I'm used to
On a how-to on Youtube
Who do I tell the truth to
Stressing and confessing
From the Jetta on Nokia
Through Bluetooth?"

The surgeon nervously goes on…

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