|
He carves the lines |
|
In perfect a thousand times |
|
And soon it will be |
|
He sings a song |
|
It's out of tune |
|
It's all wrong |
|
And soon it will be |
|
His hands, they shake |
|
Aface in not pine |
|
And soon it will be |
|
His lanterns he lights |
|
Can luminate his life |
|
And soon it will be |
|
He tries to build |
|
The fog lights can't be filled |
|
And soon it will be |
|
His hands they shake |
|
Aface in not in pine |
|
And soon it will be |
|
And it sits in his right hand |
|
But he never understands |
|
And while nothing's getting done |
|
He's just waiting to become |
