Fortunately I have got Enough to realise that This is growing old The promises you sew are Shallow footsteps in the snow That you cover up
Sumptuously I have seen The centuries in his eyes Now I’m growing up It’s wealth that makes you proud Well there’s no pockets in a shroud You want showing up. You need showing up.
I’m worn down by it all I’m worn down by it all Take my innocent relief Take my shattered inner peace I’m worn down
A culture cannot die If it is already long dead The only place for language is The remnants of these bandages That weave a futile melody While they’re wrapped around my head The subtle chill of dread that’s filling me Is deep in each capillary
Fortunately I have got Enough to realise This is growing old.
I’m worn down by it all I’m cut down by it all Take my innocent relief Take my shattered inner peace Take my worry Take my scorn Take my enigmatic pause Take the contents of my head Take the remnants Take my dread For I’m worn down.