One of those days,
where life floats in front of your eyes,
as your head swivels round,
life can't keep up with your disguise,
tell me if I'm wrong,
just do it, and I'll be fine,
but I can't see how anything I haven't created,
could truly be mine.
To enjoy, without contribution,
is this life's perfect crime,

To have and to hold,
to write and be bold,
to fit to a mold,
to be the story told.

one of those days,
where you're a foot off the ground,
three feet from the sky,
and your steps make no sound,
point in some direction,
love without affection,
life without confection,
wind without convection,
Paint me in black and white,
I still can't tell you wrong from right.

To have and to scold,
to make and then fold
to light fires, remain cold
to be the story told

to be the story told

to be the story told.

one of those lifetimes,
you have to look back on,
cannot just pass on,
not without a last song,
that punctual moment,
where the smog is the clarity,
you walk to the church,
but dont need the charity,
you stand at the feet, of a bloodied, cracked deity,
from his mouth hear the words, what is it you see in me?

To have and get rolled,
to give and see it sold,
to live but never grow old
to be the story told

to be the story told

to be the story told.