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lyrics

Looking for cracks in a ceiling of stars
Clutching my compass, I wonder where you are
Sunday’s for drinking to the phantom on high
Wipe my mouth with my sleeve
Tip my glass to the sky

And you’re way up, way up high . . .

My gramps used to say that the mysteries were fine
Stale bread on the table, near the vinegar wine

But you’re way up, way up high . . .

Doubt creeps in and starts a fire
I warm my hands and rest awhile
Weary from so many miles

I don’t know what to believe, don’t know what to say
They say I’ve thrown my life away
While they cram excuses in their heads like cats in a bag
And they’re biting and scratching me. . .

And you’re way up, way up high . . .

credits

from Murder at the Well, released August 1, 2010

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Murder at the Well Los Angeles, California

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