On the concrete in the city
beneath my feet, below my tires,
lives this race—we’re such a pity,
but somehow you can take me higher.
I believe in you to save me from the city,
but tell me—what am I to do
when I get lost, when I get lost in you?
In my chair, I read the headlines.
Looks like famine, rain, and war.
In my car, I read the roadsigns:
men at work for five miles more.
But I believe in you to save me from the city,
so tell me—what am I to do
when I get lost, when I get lost in you?
Copyright 2001. All rights reserved.