It seems that we are clams inside our shells   Side by side on rocks we feel the tide as the sea contracts and swells   Pearls grow from the pain inside we often know so well   So languageless, emotionless we must now find some way to tell the ocean not to worry   Ultimately all, predictably, is well      Oh fisherman, it seems you've lost your net   Furthermore, it seems you're sinking, do not waste time with regret   Most of the world is covered in that stuff which constitutes your sweat   With which your body's, for a long time now, been marginally wet      I would tell you but i'm not so good with words   Language makes a simple feeling seem oh so absurd   Anyway, my songs about contentment so far always end in verbs   Like "drive", or "run", or go to sleep, the damage has been done   Life's not made up of things that must be lost or won   But you can live that way if that's what you call fun      Oh karma chameleon   Are you in tune to the voice that makes that noise saying your work here is done?   And do you dream at night of thoughts inside you'll never tell no one   Unless you find some way to mask them in some sarcastic pun?      And oh, misguided secret angel on the run   What was so wrong with taking your wings off, a day of working done   In your dreams of hell, do you have endless chores or are you banished to boredom?   Now you can't decide if you believe in either one   You can't decide if you believe in either one   You'll not know until you've tried, and so you can't decide   You can't decide if you believe in either one