Where we're going as a country, I can't believe. I can't 
conceive of it anymore, and in that unknowing I feel 
alone with my telephone on the tile floor. I've got cold 
hands, stateside; the blood circulates at a pace which I 
don't prefer, and believe me, I've tried to articulate 
this. Meanwhile I wait with my ill-thought words, written 
out with a broken pen, soon to be revised again near the 
door of a steakhouse. 'Cause I still believe that all 
these records in their sleeves, they won't do nothing for 
the folks outside our little world. Hey girl, did I hear 
you say that you've got a protest song to play? Well, 
girl, don't keep it locked away. Go pull out your toy 
piano. I'm a good choice to speak about feeling doubt in 
my innovation, but while my tongue's moist I forget my 
excuse for the use of procrastination. I'm a fella who 
finds it easy to hide and abide 'til a sunny day. But 
then my umbrella, it broke in half yet I laughed  I was 
on my way down to the feeder march, stomach filled with 
starch, jacket coated by the rain. But I would never 
claim that I've got a handle on the game. I'm just 
another helpless human trying to take a stand. Hey man, 
did you cut to the chase and draw a sign to state your 
case? Well, here, come on and take my place and I'll walk 
behind you, never knowing if we're changing anything. But 
in the end we'll know we tried. And at least we'll have 
our pride  and the sunset, walking home.