Bbm7 / Bb7
Better fingers, Or, butter fingers? Do you feel like things, Are starting to slip, Over your palms, And, past your rings, Not a single digit, Able to grab it? Remembering psalms, And, the point of proverbs, As the time slips, Through your fingertips. Like Viking funeral ships, Are your dreams, Going up in flames? But, it sure seems, As though the blame's, Part of the figures. We stoked the fire, Helping time transpire, Then, we poured on gas, Just to see how fast, We could make time pass. Well, there it goes, Down the drain, Pity those, Who do remain. For the onslaught of strain... Will be our sounding refrain, As we rack the brain, Trying to expunge, What we've done, Trying to plunge, Into the rising waters, Time continues to run, Watch it slip, Through our fingers, No grip, Lingers.
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