The Crippled Physician

In bed with cold

Brittle and old like The Dead Sea scrolls

His weak pulse it shakes his whole

Frame, shame‚ same bones and sloped

Narrow shoulders of a woman on a wagon

Heading west‚ bound homeward

Folks he knows that he's gotta let go

Be released of the anger at least‚ geez

Uh, but it's burrowed deep in his soul

Hidden like a pebble in snow

(Yo!)

(Yo!)

Baby's been born with a beard worn and haggard

Weird and jagged in crowds

He stammers profoundly even amongst friends

And locks up like a tin ornithopter

Too tightly wound

He's lonesome and wanting

Groping for something

Foraging closeness from shadows retreating

And like a pro-

Foundly confused

Infant in the endless cold night

He finally finds his own thumb

And numbs himself back into sleep

He says

("What an old and strange son's life is mine

When I come off stage they stand in line to meet me")

When I come off stage they stand in line

(What an old and strange son's life is mine)

The surgeon nervously goes on

He never claimed to be God

Just a vessel for impulse pressing into several directions

Dressing and undressing the wound I'm used to

Voom-voom, voom-voom‚ voom

"Who do I tell the truth to?"

Just a vessel for impulse pressing into several directions

Dressing and undressing the wound I'm used to

On a how-to on Youtube

Who do I tell the truth to?

Stressing and confessing from the Jetta on Nokia through Bluetooth

The surgeon nervously goes on