It’s the demolition derby,
It’s the sport of the hunt,
It’s a proud tribe in full war dance,
It’s the slow smile that the bully gives the runt,
It’s the force of inertia,
It’s the lack of constraint,
It’s the children out playing in the rock garden, all dolled up in black hats and war paint.
Sometimes it feels like bars of steel I cannot bend with my hands.
Oh, worry too much,
Somebody told me that I worry too much,
Oh, worry too much,
Somebody told me that I worry too much.
It’s these sandpaper eyes and the way they rub the lustre from what is seen,
It’s the way we tell ourselves that all these things are normal, ‘til we can’t remember what we mean,
It’s the flicker of our flames,
It’s the friction born of living,
It’s the way we beat a hot retreat and heave our smoking guns into the river.
And sometimes it feels like bars of steel I cannot bend with my hands.
Oh, I worry too much,
Oh, worry too much,
Oh, worry too much,
Somebody told me that I worry too much.
It’s the quick-step march of history, the vanity of nations,
It’s the way there’ll be no muffled drums to mark the passage of my generation,
It’s the children of my children,
It’s the lambs born in innocence,
It’s wondering if the good I know will last to be seen by the eyes of the little ones.
Sometimes it feels like bars of steel I cannot bend with my hands.
Oh, worry too much,
Somebody tell me that I worry too much,
Oh, worry too much,
Somebody told me that I worry too much,
Oh, I worry too much,
Somebody told me that I worry too much,
Oh, I worry too much,
Somebody told me that I worry too much.
