It won't make a sound 'til you're through
But without solution, with feet on the ground
But this is solution and this is amends
Provide you
It happened before you came to
Written in paperback, the key to the quarterback's room
Why couldn't you?
Here we lie waiting for something to startle
The tainted election, the low dirty war
Under waning moon
But there on your windowsill
The joke always tends to come true
This is your hour to make due
And I waited there for you
And so the sleeping hours are through
Over the unmoving platoon
Deep cold November shines through
To shake us from gravity's pull
And feel your fingers falling slack and all folding back
What I knew, it'd come back to you
The sorry conclusion, the hole in the sky
And script out the rest of your life
What can we do?
This quiet serves only to hide you
Command what is tried, what is true
Take this palm, follow the lines here are written
Because there on the timberline
So loosen your shoulder blades
