Plenty of the West Lyrics

Plenty of the West
Practicing the pale polemic of a passioned passing soul
I watch and wait for footfalls that hold the words you stole
But for a fleeting instant as you carried me away
I stood, told those who would listen, "I have enough to say."

Where in the wounded wounded world would you go
If you had a bred considerance of faulty falling foes
The feeling of a foolish fancy stopped the driving train
>From staying tothe open path or wandering away

Steathily providing for a mint and winter snow
Pacing and complaining about where you have to go
Still you ask surrender and provide a pleasing pitch
But still releasing penalties and pointing out to which

Painful and pretending all I ask is that you stay
For seeing how the bundled birch reclines until the day
Be broken stance. The burning bough can offer us a way
To shout, befall, and broken fast the will will bring a way

Winding down the windy hollow breaking fast a blemish in the past
While a play of ends and over beckoning the power hold her fast
Pleasing all the fallow plunder, every night is sure to watch
Blue December marks the dust until wwe wept until the march
Studied plains of indecision as we wither by the stream
Of empty wood and hollow embers cast into our fading dream


My Own Last Chance
The tread of my tires is wearin' low
The thread of my life I'm tryin' to sew with
Is sharp and thin like a razor's edge
I feel I'm walking on a high ledge

CHORUS
(But then I) feel I'm falling down now
(And I) amplify the sound now
I'm lost and never found now
In my own last chance

I'm not tryin' hard enough to win
Sometimes I feel O.K., but then
My mind untamed packs me into a trance,
And then there's no escape from failing my last chance

CHORUS

It's strange what this feeling makes me do
My desperation makes me play the fool (to
You) I'm unnamed, I'm a face in the crowd
My indignation makes me want to scream out loud

CHORUS


Civilized Land
I stumbled down the hall
You were nowhere to be found
A dirty napkin was all
It was al, it was all that was around

There's nothing but farmers
(In this civilized land)
Nothing but sportsmen
You had no friends
But you had me

Civilians and farmers
Watching all the sports
Reading cancer warnings
On the label, labels and the charts

No tolerance of difference
(In this civilized land)
It makes no difference
If we are intelligent
Well is this the way we are?

They read the papers and the watch the news
The Bears fumble and the Yankees lose
The best of seven. Do we remember the score?
When the band leaves both home teams ignore the score

Who really wins when they have nothing to lose?
They're savages they're not like us
They're barbarians they're not like us
They're savages-not like us


When the Truth Comes Through
I'm on the verge of breaking through
Into the light for me and you
Will it be then that I reach the end?
I see strange people on this treacherous path
Some of them cry and some of them laugh
And some of them are too content to contend
And the ones in power they're indifferent
They're building up energy that's already spent
They're playing a game, attack and defend
In Lebanon they play a funeral dirge
We draw the lines that will soon converge
In a purple night flash the shadows that we send

The path is my life and truth is the end
Passion my protector and loneliness my friend
I don't understand it. I don't understand
I don't understand it at all

Let the soothsayers say what they will
They left Jesus up on the hill
Whatever happened to Corporal Claig?
Moving through the sidewalk steaam
I wonder if it's just a dream
Why are politics so very vague

When at last the truth comes through
I hope it is seen by me and you
Maybe this is not the only end


Twixist
-Instrumental-


Red Road to Winona (The Leupe)
-Instrumental-


Why Dance?
There is no acoustic truth
Only the "saviours of our youth"
Resonating bodies all
With no support they break and fall
Visions of a platry few
Concocted into a human stew
The stew, it simmers, but still hot
Remains a giant melting pot
In the pot we wiggle and writhe
Looking like worker bees in the beehive
There is no reasoon for recreation
So we do the dance called self-mutilation

Political ambition lost
We sow the seeds and reap the cost
Firing threats until we're red
>From our toes up to our heads
Threats once fried, return again
Some we keep and some we send
Why dance at all when we're dancing in hell?
Why dance at all when we're killing ourselves?


Song for Daybyrd
-Instrumental-