This is not a model
|
fit for any mold.
|
The twisted old and bitter tongues
|
are reckless just as they are cold.
|
Dwelling on the dying
|
is wet fingers to the flame.
|
And I cannot say that I believe
|
in everything that you propose to me.
|
|
I'd rather learn from children.
|
I'd rather see their world.
|
In all it's natural splendor,
|
and all it's harsh distress unknown.
|
Not what's old and jaded,
|
forgotten or ignored.
|
Or in the way of anything,
|
there to keep the flame from burning.
|
|
I read the writing on the wall, and all
|
I see is "Who has lost the sense?"
|
I read the writing on the wall, and all
|
I see is "Got to get it, to give."
|
|
All that I care to know is what you're wondering.
|
All that I care to see is what you're seeing.
|
I want to know what you know,
|
not the little things you'll learn to gaurd you
|
(All the little things we'll teach you).
|
|
I read the writing on the wall, and all
|
I see is, "Who has lost the sense?"
|
I read the writing on the wall, and all
|
I see is, "Got to get it, to give."
|
|
-----------------
|
The Sense
|
| Hot Water Music |
