we talk about social imperfections  we talk about 
wolves at every turn
we think about the comical direction  i might've taken 
if i'd never learned
there's no time for happy ever after  there's no time 
for walking in the surf
there are no words i could ever mumble  that could 
touch
the depths of what you're worth  

and it's me who wants it all to be now  to be somehow 
perfect 
me that wants it all to be right  to be something 
sacred  

you write down your intimate perceptions  you write 
down your disenchanted prose  
understand the life you chose

'cause it's me who wants it all to be now  to be 
somehow perfect  
me that wants it all to be right  to be something 
sacred, to be something sacred 

and i don't understand the reason why; a cry for love 
gets no reply  
the refuse swirling at my feet, the fascination with 
deceit  
the politics of empty men, the confidence we all 
pretend  
the multitudes at every gate, the unexpected hand of 
fate 

and it's me who wants it all to be now to be somehow 
perfect  
me that wants it all to be right  to be something 
sacred