At Fates Hands
Ours is the cry of the helpless, told
in the timeless truth of the written word
Trapped by the tempest of the blind
our muted calls can't be heard
Helpless as we stand
amidst the push of thoughtless hands
We are adrift without direction
in a raging storm on a calm sea
Clinging to our expectations
to stem the tide of destiny
Helpless as we fall
beneath the crush of waters walls
Come On
Back porch preacher preaching at me
Acting like he wrote the golden rules
Shaking his fist and speeching at me
Shouting from his soap box like a fool
Come Sunday morning he's lying in bed
With his eye all red, with the wine in his head
Wishing he was dead when he oughta be
Heading for Sunday school
Clean up your own backyard
Oh don't you hand me none of your lines
Clean up your own backyard
You tend to your business, I'll tend to mine
Drugstore cowboy criticizing
Acting like he's better than you and me
Standing on the sidewalk supervising
Telling e
Acting like he wrote the golden rules
Shaking his fist and speeching at me
Shouting from his soap box like a fool
Come Sunday morning he's lying in bed
With his eye all red, with the wine in his head
Wishing he was dead when he oughta be
Heading for Sunday school
Clean up your own backyard
Oh don't you hand me none of your lines
Clean up your own backyard
You tend to your business, I'll tend to mine
Drugstore cowboy criticizing
Acting like he's better than you and me
Standing on the sidewalk supervising
Telling e