It’s five-thirty-seven
And the shoulder is sore
I view pictures of brethren
And read words for the shore
Those sands which I walked on
As the sun was to rise
Those steady foot settlements
To feel love, love in those eyes
The door is open
The curtains are drawn
Autumn is the season
And the leaves are shorn
I didn’t mean to reason
I didn’t mean to fawn
I just made mistakes
On the day of the dawn
Like a wheel that turns
With direction unknown
Begging for forgiveness
As you carry the thorn
Nipping, and nattering
And callously borne
Shifting, and shattering
The truth in her eyes
Hoping, yer clattering
So close to despise
Helplessly flattered
By your half-way disguise
