a reporter in a jailroom whispering a source to a dying bulb while the prince is in a fable, peaceful in the cradle convinced of the impossible. all those wicked words i used to build my wild western truth, i was just following the rules. yeah, i did what i had to do. so now it's later than it needs to be and in the dulcet tones of dream, the prince atop his chariot. heaven bound and glory be.       and a mother in a market chases after children that she barely knows while the father on the barstool dropped off by his carpool is playing a familiar role. i used to be a cochran king. i watched the slow star shoot and swing. and when i'd wake, the word would sing, but now i can't hear anything. so now it's later than it needs to be. and while his stranger-family sleeps, the king looks for his castle. heaven bound and glory be.       and yeah, there's a myth we must have made. one was spreading everyday. and every dying dream we grieve, the humming hull we fight and feed. it's the loving lives we long for. heaven bound and glory be.       and a man in a hotel room tangled to his teeth by the telephone. he's waiting on a woman, wondering what she's doing and pacing 'cause his pulse won't slow. he drums his legs and pulls his hair. he carves her dimples in the air. but the raging world has spooked him scared and he don't want her lost out there. so now it's later than it needs to be. and though his aching eyes once leave against a rationality, against everything he believes. he prays for her protection. heaven bound and glory be. he prays for her protection. heaven bound and glory be. oh. i pray for your protection. heaven bound and glory be.