up up up up up up points the
|
spire of the steeple
|
but god's work isn't done by god
|
it's done by people
|
|
up up up up up up points the
|
fingers of the trees
|
the lumberjacks with their bloody axes
|
are on their knees
|
|
and just when you think that you've got enough
|
enough grows
|
and everywhere that you go in life
|
enough knows
|
|
up up up up up up dances
|
the steam from the sewer
|
as she rounds the corner
|
the brutal wind blows right through her
|
|
up up up up up up raises
|
the stakes of the game
|
each day sinks its bootprint into her clay
|
and she's not the same
|
|
and just when you think that you've got enough
|
enough grows
|
and everywhere that you go in life
|
enough knows
|
|
half of learning how to play
|
is learning what not to play
|
and she's learning the spaces she leaves
|
have their own things to say
|
then she's trying to sing just enough
|
so that the air around her moves
|
and make music like mercy
|
that gives what it is
|
and has nothing to prove
|
|
she crawls out on a limb
|
and begins to build her home
|
amd it's enough just to look around
|
to know she's not alone
|
|
up up up up up up points
|
the spire of the steeple
|
but god's work isn't done by god
|
it's done by people
|
|
-----------------
|
Up Up Up Up Up Up
|
| Ani DiFranco |
