Small Pieces

I’m an old man praying for rain in a dry month
And I pray for youth to come back and be crude
Is there no touch, no tingle, no terrible crutch
What kind of man are you, holding on to that feeling?
What kind of man are you, holding on to that feeling?
We’re big, we’re better, we’re dreaming clever
We’re big, we’re better, we’re dreaming clever
How deep is the pillow that catches our thoughts?
And will it be soft or will it remain true?
All our sick souls require is faith and desire
To feed our whims before our eyes grow dim
What kind of man are you, holding on to that feeling?
What kind of man are you, holding on to that feeling?
We’re big, we’re better, we’re dreaming clever
We’re big, we’re better, we’re dreaming clever
What kind of man are you, holding on to that feeling?
What kind of man are you, holding on to that feeling?
What kind of man are you, holding on to that feeling?
What kind of man are you, holding on to that feeling?