D C G C G x 2
C D G x 2
C G C G
D C
I’m sitting here listening to the tin kettle whistling in this cold spring kitchen,
My cigarette’s shrinking and all the time I’m thinking about fact and fiction.
I fold the daily paper up, I stare into my empty cup,
I sit and wonder if I’m ever gonna find some truth.
I’m staring at the TV it doesn’t mean a thing to me it’s all so empty,
Pious self promotion and selling cheap emotion in endless replay.
I wonder just who makes it up,
The voices hidden in the well timed cut
I sit and listen for a voice that like the ones I know.
In between devotions plans are set in motion far across the ocean,
Mystic incantation about God and love of nation feed a blind abstraction.
From somewhere far away across the sea,
I imagine someone just like me
Sitting singing like a ghost into the empty sky.
In all the glowing lounge rooms the talk is quick and visions bloom in rich profusion,
Denying the illusion that there’s life without confusion such a rich diffusion.
And through it all I hear some common words,
The common cry to have our voices heard,
I hear faint echoes coming back from un-transmitted souls.
I’m sitting here listening fact or fiction.
But through it all untransmitted souls.
bob's songs 