Backwards clocks sing distorted chimes, in this promised Land. Nothing solid beneath me now, I struggle just to stand.

Stories told us bended lies, and nailed us to this cross. Head held high we carry on, searching for what is lost.

They said to seek religion, but I always break the mold. Fortune tellers tossing cards, of dreams that just grow cold.

Hope must be a grown up wish, neither really stick. Any path leaves us marked, with scabs we like to pick.

I waisted youth to get here, to stand behind the line. They preach about the promised land, then left us all behind.