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Four years in the saddleRunning the butter knife through every stick, be under the grimeMy cavalry is drowning in quicksandWhile every tent in my camp must be glazed, so let's be dryAnd all of my generals, so timid, they makeBarely a siege, when I would in this whole camp peaceSo look past the stains in my apron strains and get me to trustSpread out like fingers, God's righteous hand gone through the dustA noun is the name of the thing you got, trade like desserts towards the things that I must Aus Songtexte Mania