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Colour of a man chiseled in stone |
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is the marker of a man ridded by woe |
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It is the colour of a man stuck in his grey |
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and the mood of his brood that he has painted on |
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His face is painted on with pools of clay |
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and the blood of an animal run astray |
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He is the colour of a man who plays in sport |
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And the wisdom of his words are simply taken on |
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He covers me with ash and falls asleep |
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I'm whispering the words that he has grown to love |
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Words can have a way to pull the string |
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A grunting of the "ifs" and "fs" and then the "oh" |
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It is simpler when I think about being no more than one of his many trophies |
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than to live with a man who craves the cold |
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and to be the one that has to ask for every dole |
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Stone men stand as if they own the place |
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The power that they lack it has been painted on |
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Worshiping them is the only way |
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Creating worth from ash that greys the every pore |
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is colouring the man with what he thinks he knows |
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The colour is infectious like the na ne nee ne na nee oh |
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I feel the weakness of his wishy-washy ways |
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in the rhythm of his hips as he pretends to love |
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and the heavy set of steps that stomp away |
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Such that is the colour of a manimalninamimalnimanimalnimanimal |
