|
You're a man of impeccable taste |
|
And you know when the X marks the spot |
|
We all need a map for the trail of your thought |
|
Where to go, well, the X marks the spot |
|
You seem to have a misgiving |
|
Hell yeah, you make a living |
|
Don't add bricks to what we're heaving |
|
We would so much |
|
Rather the enjoy beach, beer and a fire |
|
You think something somewhere |
|
And you've signed where the X marks the spot |
|
You join a cult, fill the void that you've got |
|
Deep within where the X marks the spot |
|
There you stand n' talk and holler |
|
How dark are all your colors |
|
When you paint another sunrise |
|
You leave out the sun |
|
Birds like you fly straight to heaven, heaven |
|
Or they slowly float away... |
|
How well do you know those you're calling your own? |
|
I mean... come on dude! |
|
Your starving soul in your house of skin and bone |
|
You're an island, the X marks the spot |
|
There you stand n' talk and holler |
|
How dark are all your colors |
|
When you paint another sunrise |
|
You leave out the sun |
|
Birds like you fly straight to heaven, heaven |
|
Or they slowly float away... |
|
You're a circus, but where is the clown |
|
There's no map, still the X marks the spot |
|
There you stand n' talk and holler |
|
How dark are all your colors |
|
When you paint another sunrise |
|
You leave out the sun |
|
Birds like you fly straight to heaven, heaven |
|
Or they slowly float down |
|
Into the night with senior John Barleycorn |
|
Heaven, heaven |
|
Or they slowly float away... |
