Here we are going nowhere now
Faster than ever before
Not sure of when nor even of how
We bit into this rusty lure

Today lives seem to blow in the breeze
Through branches of rotting trees
Somehow I feel the greatest of need
To repeat the branches of rotting trees

Take the pickaxe and dig up the grave
Unmarked is the one in which we play
No sense in holding it in
Well dig it up then fill it all in again

We all want certain things in life
Standing in line with the question why
Hope against hope not what we deserve
Don't think about it nor whisper a word

Most times find our heads stuck in the mud
No way to move and here comes the flood
Thought at one time if we just let it be
Have I mentioned the branches of the rotting trees

If we cut at those branches, strip off the vines
The fruit it still rots before it's time
And here we are still standing in line
Again with the question of why