Mystic mountains mesmerize the mushroom men all made of makers
widdling and whistling their worth of wisdom gone away.
The elves and orcs and fairytales all melt their minds like baker's clay
but the battles of the forgone years are myths or so they say.
Mysteries of memories make martyrs of the masterpiece
left pondering and posturing a life all built on coal.
The runnin' gun and promised son are notches on a totem pole
the mile runs, trips round the sun, still Sonny caught his toll.
And as the light rose o'er the mountain
the meaning you receive.
In every bit of jumbled nonsense
is wisdom to perceive.
Arrows fly and tears are cried a dance of demons compromised
cordoning and bordering the lines carved in the sand.
The picturesque, the quite grotesque, are just the wrongs of a right hand.
and to the left, the sun is set, the tiny planes begin to land.
Eyes of caves and tears of slaves are fountains falling for our father's
suffering and sputtering excuses of our times.
The cowboy grin that stinks of gin and boots still laced in grime
are borne and battled, shook and raddled, and quaking to the spine.
And as the light shone o'er the mountain
the meaning you receive.
In every bit of jumbled nonsense
is wisdom to perceive.
A bird in flight,
a lonesome night,
a boxer struggles through a fight.
A string untied,
a lover lied,
wasted wanting up and died.
A link or two,
a solemn cue,
and a subtle nod of what to do.
The summit and the peak.
And as the light set o'er the mountain
the meaning you receive.
In every bit of jumbled nonsense
is wisdom to perceive.
