Show Me The Money
Feelin old
At this piano filled with souls
Some strange purse
Stuffed nervous with gold
Can you be where you want to be?
Walk down any street
You can find
Look at any clock telling time
Sing some strange verse
From some strange song of vines
And youll be where you want to be
I know I can't sing
Until she brings the song to life
And I blend with kings
Id never change a thing
Who knows anything
I don't know
There are so many things
I must leave alone
Some strange person is calling you their home
Can you b
Roots To Branches
Words get written. Words get twisted.
Old meanings move in the drift of time.
Lift the flickering torches. See gentle shadows change
the features of the faces cut in unmoving stone.
Bad mouth on a prayer day, hope no one's listening.
Roots down in the wet clay, branches glistening.
True disciples carrying that message
to colour just a little with their personal touch.
Home-spun fancy weavers and naked half-believers --
Crusades and creeds descend like fiery flakes of snow.
Bad mouth on a prayer day, hope no one's listening.
Roots down in the wet clay, branches glistening.
In wet and windy priest-holes. Grand in vast cathedrals.
High on lofty minarets or in the temples of doom.
I hope the old man's got his face on.
He'd better be some quick change artist.
Suffer little children to make their minds up soon.
Bad mouth on a prayer day, hope no one's listening.
Roots down in the wet clay, branches glistening.