One rare morning I awake
And in some not small part of me I'm shook by a feeling of grace
A feeling of grace
Rain may patter, the wind may hiss
But it's not so much forgetting, relics that clung to me loose their grip
They loose their grip
And we're all composed of some old beliefs
You can't make little cuts, until you feel clean of your memories
And if you ever feel when you're looking back
It would make you sick to get past the past just breathe quick and cough ‘til you fog up the gla**
You can smooth the wood, sand down the burl
But to a certain extent our history is irrevocable
Irrevocable
After all this hand-wringing there's still shifts in my breast
My old body, new body, a cognate misleading at best
And if you ever feel when you're looking back
It would make you sick to get past the past just breathe quick
Until you fog up the gla**
‘Til you fog up the gla**