Crooked Crown

If I could find a cure for your disease

I'd keep it to myself and oversleep

And I would brush it slowly through your hair

Don't despair

And I could sell your manuscript away

And shatter to the lowest bid today

Or toss it down the stairs into your yard

To discard

And you are not a mystery;

More a tragic comedy...

The next day you rise.

The next day you rise.

The next day you rise.

The next day you rise.

Oh, hold me down, I'm your clown

You refuse to wear your crooked crown

And when she cries at night

Goals are in her sight

She won't set it out and get it done

It just keeps her broken down, she's trapped inside

The tensions from her life

She can't get around, get around

I don't see you breaking down

Not right... I'm right.

The next day you rise.

The next day you rise.

The next day you rise.

The next day you rise.