Butterfly Of Wisdom by Ithaka
All alone without thoughts at my old blue desk
alone on easter sunday ... my brokeness (still) a pest
am I my own man? ... or just a puppet on a string?
do I turn my own board? ... or wait for fate to bring?
Whatever. Whatever. Whatever will be
believe that and you're a sucker you may never see the
key
preachers, teachers abusers of religion
everyone claiming to see the only vision
prophecies sprouting up like weeds
don't believe'em none ... the truth grows like a tree
when I ask others where am I headed?
they tell me ask the planets ... ask the stars
but is the fate of another sucker mine
because of the tilt of Mars?
maybe it is. Maybe it ain't
but what about the flowers and the color of paint?
do you become what you think about most?
to be or not to be? ... or to be an almost?
do the gods help those who help themselves?
or should I store my juice up on a mental shelf?
am I my own man? ... or just a puppet on a string?
do I turn my own board? or wait for fate to bring?
came out of my apartment at the street door
looked back up to my window on the second floor
got a planter-box of flowers ... got some purple, got
some blue
when into my pretty picture ... a white butterfly flew
bouncing alone she went ... it seemed without direction
bouncing alone she went ... she was the vision of
perfection
am I my own man? ... or just a puppet on a string?
do I turn my own board? or wait for fate to bring?
so I followed that little butterfly of wisdom
down the dusty streets of the city of Lisbon
and somewhere down near Alcantara-Mar
she stopped for a moment on the hood of a car
|
