The world waits for angled impressions, ideals with wings and blind morals, and with box in hand, I may wait as well. Heathen masses growl like angry jungle cats, ashamed at everyone else but themselves. I see them following one another like lemmings, each one different but the same, treading through mounds of capitalistic drivel like so much mud. Your thoughts have been subliminally telegraphed to your medulla oblongata via sneaking in the building like burglars as you watch Britney Spears systematically dismantle her life. Box in hand, I briefly misunderstand, is this country suited to the average man? Is this where I make my stand? Is that why I do what most can't, while they do what the can? There are false idols at work, those of flesh and sin, and those we hold close, and covet with a grin.
Box in hand - a gift of promise to share with the world...
A box in my hand, a man, a dream, a conqueror, a thief, a king.
A present for all who talk and scheme,
Open it up and see what I mean.
Box in hand - a gift of promise to share with the world...
A box in my hand, a man, a dream, a conqueror, a thief, a king.
A present for all who talk and scheme,
Open it up and see what I mean.