The holes in your jeans
But if you can't be kind to people every day
Mine are crossing an empty parking lot
Are they worn out in the seat
I don't wear anything, I can't wipe my hands on
Our enemies are the very air
We are just trying to track a problem to its source
And extreme, of course
There are so many ways to wear
It's the little things you do
Because I want to know
And wood that hums against my hipbone
Alone, they are six string that sing
They are a woman walking home at night
Because we owe them our lives
We are looking for the holes
When we patch things up
Our enemies are the air
Because we want to know
The little things you say
What we've got before, it's gone
It's the love you give along the way
Do your policies fit between the headlines?
Are they written in newsprint? Are they distant?
Are enemies are the very air in disguise
Are they worn out in the seat
Each breath is recycled from someone else's lungs
They say a job well done
You can talk a great philosophy
It doesn't mean that much to me
Or are they worn out in the knees
To make use of what is there
But when we ask why
They say we are subversive
Because we know we can't sit back
We owe them our lives
We can't afford to do anyone harm
Each breath is recycled from someone else's lungs
And let people come to harm
Where did the rips come from?
