Letras
All alone without thoughts
At my old blue desk
Alone on easter sunday
My brokeness still a pest
Am I my own man?
Or just a puppet on a string?
Do I turn my own board?
Or wait for fate to bring?
Whatever. Whatever.
Whatever will be
Believe that and you're a sucker
You may never see the key
Preachers, teachers abusers of religion
Everyone claiming to see the only vision
Prophecies sprouting up like weeds
Don't believe'em none
The truth grows like a tree
When I ask others,
Where am I headed?
They tell me ask the planets
Ask the stars
But is the fate
Of another sucker mine
Because of the tilt of mars?
Maybe it is. Maybe it ain't
But what about
The flowers and the color of paint?
Do you become what you think about most?
To be or not to be? ... Or to be an almost?
Do the gods help those who help themselves?
Or should I store my juice
Up on a mental shelf?
Am I my own man? ... O
R just a puppet on a string?
Do I turn my own board?
Or wait for fate to bring?
Came out of my apartment at the street door
Looked back up to my window on the second floor
Got a planter-box of flowers
Got some purple, got some blue
When into my pretty picture
A white butterfly flew
Bouncing alone she went
It seemed without direction
Bouncing alone she went
She was the vision of perfection
Am I my own man?
Or just a puppet on a string?
Do I turn my own board?
Or wait for fate to bring?
So I followed that little butterfly of wisdom
Down the dusty streets of the city of lisbon
And somewhere down near alcantara-mar
She stopped for a moment on the hood of a car