(Mark Heard)



it's the demolition derby 

it's the sport of the hunt 

proud tribe in full war-dance 

it's the slow smile that the bully gives the runt 

it's the force of inertia 

it's the lack of constraint 

it's the children out playing in the rock garden 

all dolled-up in black hats and war paint 



sometimes it feels like bars of steel 

i cannot bend with my hands 

oh - i worry too much 

somebody told me that i worry too much 



it's these sandpaper eyes 

it's the way they rub the luster from what is seen 

it's the way we tell ourselves that all these things are normal 

till we can't remember what we mean 

it's the flicker of our flames 

it's the friction born of living 

it's the way we beat a hot retreat 

and heave our smoking guns into the river 



sometimes it feels like bars of steel 

i cannot bend with my hands 

oh - i worry too much 

somebody told me that i worry too much 



it's the quick-step march of history 

the vanity of nations 

it's the way there'll be no muffled drums 

to mark the passage of my generation 

it's the children of my children 

it's the lambs born in innocence 

it's wondering if the good i know 

will last to be seen by the eyes of the little ones