You lost me. You lost me among the lies and the metaphors and a simile. What would it be like? and you just kept going, kept painting pictures, like your life depended on it. like the dream would end if you stopped talking about it. like Martin Luther King and all those other liars. They only did what they could, only sold the truth, only twisted it around themselves, bending themselves out of shape and out of sorts to pass on a message. To contain themselves would have been blasphemy. So they rebelled with the only type of blasphemy they knew they could face. They came down on the public like a storm with orders to possess and be possessed. And it worked didn't it? it lit up your soul, it danced you out into the night, it carried you to me, and it goes on. it goes on. now you're back to painting pictures cause they said you can't write songs, and you're losing me (but it's okay. ) you were meant to lose me.

You could call names with the best of em, run circles like you been here for years, spin lies on lines like wishing wells. You never got too far from home, never packed up and made off, destined to rule the world. And its just as well. The rest of us are sitting here like beggars who haven't haven't got time to change the world like we thought we would. Its just a way of life, a lie told just to get us to get up and move, get us off their backs, get us to stop asking questions. but we won't stop. we can't stop. we owe it. we owe it to ourselves. we owe it to you.