Burnt my guitar, and I ran the canvas through.
My books are on fire, and I did it all for you.
My bones got bound, my knuckles cracked and bruised.
As soon as they're paid, the bomb will be diffused.
If I put my hope in the hands of a grain of possibility
that you might value this refrain, whoa oh.
One night's sleeping in a drift of snow.
The frostbite came; the fingers had to go.
I'd like to say that it felt like all was lost,
but the truth remains - the future is bad luck.
Can it be possible? That melodies needn't just be,
means to ends - maybe they can be significant.
In the singing of and the writing of the clumsiness,
and the fumbling for some truth, which never arrives,
but I glimpsed for a second.
Track Name: The Classics
The last time I saw the library, I wasn't fond of anyone.
Filled my head with all the classics, but I dreamt of you alone.
I asked at the mosque and I asked at the temple;
"What do I do when I feel unstable?"
The first time I saw the city, it felt like something odd.
The question I kept coming back to; "is it strange to trust in a god?"
I wrote to the King, and I sketched it out gently:
"What do I do when I feel it intently?"
Started out with little promise, soon there'll be nothing left.
Lost a lot of my blood somewhere, looking for a chance to rest.
The next time I see the river, I might just wash away;
and search for something simpler than what happened yesterday.
I called at the church and I visited the Commons;
"How many years 'til this all is forgotten?"
I spoke to the Boss and I spoke to my buddy.
I can't help but feel that I've been quite unlucky.