It seems that we are clams inside our shells Side by side on rocks we feel the tide as the sea contracts and swells Pearls grow from the pain inside we often know so well So languageless, emotionless we must now find Some way to tell the ocean not to worry Ultimately all, predictably, is well
Oh fisherman, it seems you've lost your net Furthermore, it seems you're sinking, do not waste time with regret Most of the world is covered in that stuff which constitutes your sweat With which your body's, for a long time now, been marginally wet
I would tell you but i'm not so good with words Language makes a simple feeling seem oh so absurd Anyway, my songs about contentment so far always end in verbs Like "drive", or "run", or go to sleep, the damage has been done Life's not made up of things that must be lost or won But you can live that way if that's what you call fun
Oh karma chameleon Are you in tune to the voice that makes that noise saying your work here is done? And do you dream at night of thoughts inside you'll never tell no one Unless you find some way to mask them in some sarcastic pun?
And oh, misguided secret angel on the run What was so wrong with taking your wings off, a day of working done In your dreams of hell, do you have endless chores or are you banished to boredom? Now you can't decide if you believe in either one You can't decide if you believe in either one You'll not know until you've tried, and so you can't decide You can't decide if you believe in either one