HOPKINS

They were talkin’ amongst themselves,

they say, “Give it some air, let it heal up on its own”

Salt over my shoulder, click my heels three times,

and bury a stone (and bury a stone)

Brand new from the box, smells like oil just like one my father had Kill the phone;

check the locks, letting go just the way my father did

The truth’s twisted like funhouse glass

until it’s bent out of shape into something you can’t recognize

You strain to hear whispered facts

while at the top of their lungs they scream out every lie (every lie)

Will the blast wake the block? Who’ll clean up the mess like the one my father made?

First attempt, second thoughts, final draft just the way my father did

Brand new from the box, smells like oil just like one my father had Kill the phone;

check the locks, letting go just the way my father did

And I left sounds around the room but they can’t travel in vacuum

Now it’s too late for me to know Faith is something you carry not somewhere you go

Faith is something you carry not somewhere you go

Faith is something you carry not somewhere you go

Faith is something you carry not somewhere you go

Somewhere you go Somewhere you go Somewhere you go

Words and music by S. Knight and D. Bell