The Wanderer

The curtains have been closed, I am cold still
When hunters blow their smoke into the hills
And the pretty girls pick pine cones, In the white fields
And I am wide eyed waiting for you

So Mother mind the your words
These are young ears built to feast on what it is they hear
Mother don’t be cruel
If you are looking, a good man will whip himself in front of you

Win or lose, He will be there for you
And he will call you by your first name
Win or lose, I cannot comfort you
Anymore than my touch can tell

The lungs that I could long for
Are heaving hearts full of
Empty books on wood shelves starving
And the mouths that speak the good word
I am not good for because I tasted the fruit when it was ripe

So I will wash my hands clean of these things
And I will lick my lips and you will look but you can’t touch
And you will go on stalwart fighting for your causes
And I will go on stalwart counting all my loses

I am just as good as the ones who
Stand in the street and beg for mercy
Unlock your cellar door and let loose the demons
You keep within the belly of your beast

Win or lose, He will be there for you
And he will call you by your first name
Win or lose, I cannot comfort you
Anymore than my touch can tell