Paroles de Eleven Outstretched Hands
I flew in to this city from the WestI took eleven outstretched hands and shook them briefly
In an effort to chase tension from our chests
I said, "Sir, you're the man with whom I'll be competing"
Then I turned and wiped my hand across my head to ease the feeling
Those twenty-two eyes stared awkwardly by and their sockets are silencers
For my secret is that they'd spill out of the back of my head but I wasn't revealing
Because I realized, after five hundred tries, the mystery is one thing that works
So instead of staring at the stars
I keep my eyes fixed straight ahead
Don't kill me if I pronounce my 'r's
Lord, I was raised in the midwest
And it's a last resort after losing again
I turn my eyes to the lord and ask him if I'll ever win
And it's a last resort after a swing and a miss
I turn my eyes to the lord, but does he care about this?
I stepped off of the stage on to the floor
And the rhythm and my heart had both stopped beating
Not a single sallow soul had asked for more
So I put away my weapon and started weeping
Well I wept because I'd been shamed, I'd been betrayed and I was bleeding So instead of staring at the stars
I try to take in everything
And yes, I still pronounce my 'r's
Especially when I sing
And it's a last resort after losing again
I turn my eyes to the lord and ask him if I'll ever win
And it's a last resort after a swing and a miss
I turn my eyes to the lord, but does he even exist?
And just before I give up and put my weapon in my belt
I find a record of resilience when I look inside myself
And as the sun began to set
I took eleven outstretched hands and shook them sweetly
And with no bitterness or shame passing my lips
I said, "You're not the first, but you'll be the last to beat me"
For my secret is that they'd spill out of the back of my head but I wasn't revealing
Because I realized, after five hundred tries, the mystery is one thing that works
So instead of staring at the stars
I keep my eyes fixed straight ahead
Don't kill me if I pronounce my 'r's
Lord, I was raised in the midwest
And it's a last resort after losing again
I turn my eyes to the lord and ask him if I'll ever win
And it's a last resort after a swing and a miss
I turn my eyes to the lord, but does he care about this?
I stepped off of the stage on to the floor
And the rhythm and my heart had both stopped beating
Not a single sallow soul had asked for more
So I put away my weapon and started weeping
Well I wept because I'd been shamed, I'd been betrayed and I was bleeding So instead of staring at the stars
I try to take in everything
And yes, I still pronounce my 'r's
Especially when I sing
And it's a last resort after losing again
I turn my eyes to the lord and ask him if I'll ever win
And it's a last resort after a swing and a miss
I turn my eyes to the lord, but does he even exist?
And just before I give up and put my weapon in my belt
I find a record of resilience when I look inside myself
And as the sun began to set
I took eleven outstretched hands and shook them sweetly
And with no bitterness or shame passing my lips
I said, "You're not the first, but you'll be the last to beat me"
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