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Under the stairs, behind the neon lamp, the chaps are thinking. |
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She does not care to sit and stare, her blood eyes blinking. |
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She works forever, each and every day, |
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And she's reminded of every small mistake, |
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And she's descended from a long-forgotten race. |
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And so she walks all of her precious trails the wrong direction. |
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She does not talk, but rather reccommends with good intentions. |
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She walks forever, at an even pace, |
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And she remembers every last detail |
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And she's been counted every single way. |
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She says "A hundred million people could be wrong. A hundred million people could be wrong. A hundred million people have been wrong before. A hundred million people could be wrong." |
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And we could wait for him to make just one slight wrong move. |
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It is a shame when he falls away (?) with just one slight wrong move. |
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And we work forever each and every day and we surrender anyway |
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In so many different ways. |
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We said "A hundred million people can be wrong. A hundred million people could be wrong. A hundred million people could be wrong. A hundred million people have been wrong before. A hundred million people could be wrong." |
