The Wring

Third Base


Standing on your hallowed ground
An Island in the stream
Waiting for the waves to rise
And wash you down again

Robbing Peter, paying Paul
Weary to the bone
Surrounded by your sycophants
You face the wolves alone

One day you woke up standing on third base
Thought you’d hit a triple, thought you’d won a race
Now you’re not so sure what is real and what is not
You know you’re empty-handed when you are all you’ve got

Wearing failure like a coat of gilded hubris
Eating humble pie with a silver spoon
Standing so tall, a pillar of indifference
Flying so high, oblivious to the end that’s coming soon

Every grain through the hourglass
A millstone on your back
The weight of days is crushing you
The palace starts to crack

Standing on your hallowed ground
The lesser men approach
The banal rise in unison
Reaching for your throat


Feeling silence, peels the paint right off the wall
Afraid to be alone, need the world to make you tall
Feeding darkness, takes the crumbs right from your hand
No longer feels like home, slave to its demands

Standing on the shoulders of what lesser men remain
Still can’t reach the sun
Try to squeeze the world down smaller, hold to your domain
End what you’ve begun