| there is a car parked where the block begins | 
| and there are people singing praises | 
| say it’s all because of him | 
| and there is a bird perched on a frayed wet wire | 
| and his voice sings out for a lover | 
| but its covered by the choir of voices | 
| reaching way beyond the rafters | 
| with devotion they perform these sacred tasks | 
| they cross themselves and offer up their checkbooks | 
| slight suffering is not too much to ask | 
| besides we all are making money | 
| and we are all fucking alone | 
| and we don’t know what we are doing | 
| maybe just buying us some hope | 
| because we know that we are lonely | 
| yeah, lonely that’s for sure | 
| and the older ones are coughing | 
| and the older ones are dying | 
| maybe we are all dying | 
| i pass a graveyard on my way to work | 
| today i saw two dozen white roses | 
| on a fresh new mound of dirt | 
| and i wondered about the occupant | 
| when the darkness finally swallowed him was he calm and content | 
| or was he sweating in a struggle to keep breathing, | 
| ripping apart the sheets that dressed his bed | 
| crying out loud for someone to help him | 
| and collapsing on his back all pale and dead | 
| maybe it’s me who’s this unstable | 
| always obsessed about the end | 
| why can’t i let what happens happen? | 
| and just enjoy the time i spend | 
| oh how i wish it was so easy | 
| but when there is no point to anything it can get a bit confusing | 
| why is that i keep going? | 
| why is that we keep going? |