These poor threads can only make poor clothing Clothing I will wear on my emotions They will never keep away the cold These poor threads can only make more clothing
An empty gun I carry on my shoulder I was never born to be a soldier But I was never born to run and hide An empty gun I carry on my shoulder
Sleight of hand done by a poor magician Fingers fumble in his indecision I just can't seem to make things disappear He cries How can I bring them back again These poor threads can only make poor clothing.