If You're Still There in the Morning

Sometimes it's alone in your room where you must feel unstable.
The gambler holding a match to the side of your eye.
The sun cape crowds your head pounds rounds into the chamber.
But your head's still there in the morning.

If hands were designed to deceive then conceived I have gladly.
With these worn out unchangeable strings my hands tend to play.
But their chains of a certain design made of lies, rhymes, and allegory.

But the job still there in the morning.
And each house you have buried so deep in the mind of your masters.
Who closed their eyes to the war on the rim of our stars.
And whoever saint soldier sinner or the obsessor the shadows are unbroken.
But the sun's still there in the morning.

The holy machine tends to reject any incantations.
That you made to live like you'd liked to have lived at your best.
And it's the dealers of downers who engulf and perfect your imagination.
That guided eye of some my-er my in a styrofoam vest.
But even if my guides forsake my darling

And stolen whatever has drone inside of my home.
I sleep well through the night neath the beast is the thief and the provider
And the choice is still there in the morning.
So rejoice with me in the morning.
Rejoice with me in the morning