Inclination of direction, walk the turned and twisted rift
With the children of creation futuristic dreams we sift
Clutching violently we whisper with a liquefying cry
Any deadly final answers that are surely doomed to die
Won't you help me Mr. Jesus, won't you tell me if you can?
When you see this world we live in, do you still believe in Man?
If my songs become my freedom, and my freedom turns to gold
Then I'll ask the final question, if the answer could be sold
Well, that's my story and I'm sticking to it
world
turned
think
violently
taught
sticking
songs
remember
reason
still
question
problems
perceive
matter
jesus
clutching
children
final
believe
surely
around
along
become
turns
story
inclination
answers
bought
could
creation
deadly
answer
direction
doomed
dreams
always
exist
entire
whisper
twisted
messing
forget
freedom
futuristic
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