Whacked-out ingenue stomping around the musuem

this is a song i can't say to you without singing

it's an ancient pattern that also works for fishing

men knitting thinking they praying to they wives

wives teats hanging heavy as hoopties with babies

sing another song also not the one i'm singing to you

but there is a child one all alone out there in the cold

he might be standing on a windy bridge singing

i feel alone yet so free out here i don't want to go home

i figure in this scene it seems to make room for me

and every morning walking home the sun is up for me

they must make room for me here and my reasons

they must consider my reasons and my innocence

it must speak back to them about they own trajectories

way they left they keys they left they innocence

this is the outside world all meeting together with me

this is the impression i leave on nature itself

while i find the key to get back on out again

nature sit outside the protection from enemies

yet nature let your natural friends come

if you're young you've got natural mojo and

there are those that come around protect the 

fine young leather bound for treasure bound

together bound in pleasure an more pleasure

an the hard side of town way they knock at

your door for the rent or turn the music down

and you get it that all whores are workers and

all workers are whores and you want to

burn it down, eat it up, burn it down, eat it up

burn it down burn it down burn it down burn it

up and eat it up and be eaten up and eat it up and

burn it up and take it down and take it up and

this is the song i couldn't say to you this is the

story i can't tell you because it never ends

it's a trajectory that carries on the winds of time

it makes a circle and then a swirly and then

a silver line a landing a griddle a very firm bed

a sheet of ice a melting sea of liberty

this is the story the story i am singing to you

by Missy