The orchestra of senses plays the attic every night,
The ladder leading there is hard to climb.
Admission's your good judgement, six left turns that lead you blind,
and one hot minute's all its running time.

So take these ballads off my shelf,
deliria devoid of wealth.
And all poor, pretty time can prove
Is how your bones prefer to move.

A phenomenon of fortune funneled out from all you're working toward.
Never see it, never saw it, never would have seen, their scale of reward.
Outward we persist as temporarily embarrassed millionaires.
In the lobby of the atrium, the anteroom of dry despair.

Before you've unpacked you're moving away.
The exits fade

From their cave, the lost uphold their birthright,
Just a tiny bit of light.
Just a burning lump of light.

Gladiators soldier on through stage fright,
with a little bit of light.
How the might-not becomes might.

Chasing after every mismatched decoy,
For a little bit of fun.
Just a little bit of fun.

You simply held it out for me to enjoy,
and I smacked it from your hand,
asking who has sent you,
and what return's due.
(Just a little bit of fun.
When the right one's the wrong one.)

So take these tickets in your hand,
our seats are closest to the band.
For one hot minute hear them play,
The next one sees us on our way.