Blood absorbed into the bread of man
Grows heavy on the plate
If bread were eaten with every meal
It wouldn't taste so great
In every kitchen in every house
On good days or in bad
Content or bitchin' you turn to the light
That falls on the things you had
And it's always something
Else you had in mind
And you always notice
When something isn't right
Let the fork fall from your right hand
Your hand
Your hand
Behold the rock and roll its mossy ass
Over on its side
Look to see the grubs and little silverfish
Scurry from the light
A child is playing with the volume knob
And the radio goes dead
A father speaks and then an ambulance
Is heard outside your head
And it's always something
Else you had in mind
And you always notice
When something isn't right
Let the stone fall back again
Again
Again
