Well the steel in his strings
|
Cuts into his fingers
|
And the lines that are left
|
He knows so well
|
|
And the words that he screams
|
Sift through the smoke and sweat
|
While his wandering mind
|
Tries to tell...
|
|
To tell him he's uninspired
|
In some weary, absent way
|
To tell him he's simply tired...
|
|
Then the sound rolls in
|
And lifts him up and in to the place he should've been
|
Then the sound rolls in, and lifts him up and in
|
|
And when all has been drained
|
He wrestles with the feeling
|
Of an unfelt refrain that he knew too well
|
|
And the words that he hears,
|
Because they compliment
|
Are the words that he fears,
|
Because they tell...
|
|
They tell him he's uninspired
|
In some weary absent way
|
They tell him he's simply hired here.
|
|
Then the sound rolls in.
|
And lifts him up and in to the place he should've been
|
Then the sound rolls in...
|
|
-----------------
|
Uninspired
|
The Conells |