|
A system in the making, |
|
self-healing for the blind, |
|
sitting in the waiting-room |
|
of the patient mind; |
|
raging at the illness |
|
when the rage may be its cause, |
|
the purpose of the will is lost |
|
in the search for an escape clause, |
|
in the search for an escape clause. |
|
Fatal convalescence, |
|
the wound becomes a weal; |
|
the poison is in essence just |
|
the virus of the real. |
|
But there's sympathetic healing, |
|
the power of the soul bandages, |
|
concealing all that we can't control, |
|
all that we can't control. |
|
Waiting for the doctor to come. |
|
Waiting for the doctor to come. |
|
Waiting for the doctor to come. |
|
Waiting for the doctor to come. |
|
A system in the making, |
|
self-healing for the blind, |
|
sitting in the waiting-room |
|
of the patient mind... |
|
But there isn't any answer |
|
the consciousness can quote |
|
when the loaded dice of chance are there, |
|
rattling in the throat, |
|
rattling in the throat. |
|
Waiting for the doctor to come. |
|
Waiting for the doctor to come. |
|
Waiting for the doctor to come. |
|
Waiting for the doctor to come. |
|
You put your faith in others; |
|
the fear could not be worse, |
|
but Nature's not your mother now, |
|
just your suckling nurse. |
|
There isn't any doctor, |
|
there isn't any cure... |
|
That might come as a shock to you, |
|
but can you really be so sure? |
|
Can you really be so sure? |
|
Can you really be sure? |
