Three Fingers In

Well it would take a mountain of men to move me
And that’d be a long way from the way that you spoke
In your head so clearly without break or breath
Or words redefining
I was stuck on my pride
And the skin
And the sinking it in
And you told me
«Wipe your brow, clean me off
Give me time to figure it out.»
Some songs we could sing, and never mean it
Some songs leave a ring
And you hate the few who were bold
Some burn up the sleeve
And drive too far to remember
Well I wasn’t lost, I was here
I was three fingers in
I was the junkyard, and the bumper
For the few feeling left
I was the cold nail, and the ice
On the sheets of the trenched and the soaking wet
Well it’d be the bit and the reins
That broke all the teeth in the mouth
And it’d be the whip, on the foreskin
For the few that had some left
To spare
Some songs we could sing, and never mean it
Some songs leave a ring
And you hate the few who were bold
Some burn up the sleeve
And drive too far to remember