Standing tired at the door at dawn,
I have traveled far.
I’m so weary that I can’t go on,
And neither can my car.
I was given a secret,
A secret that I just can’t tell,
Pulled from a rusted bucket,
Deep within a well.

The masses wait to hear the words,
Left just for them.
Secrets left from yester-year,
To guide them to the end.

Please, Mister, won’t you let me in?
The miles have taken their toll.
I need to rest before I plant these words,
Deep within the soil.
You see, I’m carrying words of fate,
And their burden only wears me down,
If I can get only two hours sleep,
Then I’ll plant them in the ground.

I wish I could calm the restless crowd,
And convince them all to go home.
They think that I’ll really speak the words to them,
And now the wailing’s loud.

The words themselves had been on a shelf,
For more than fifty years,
And then came along a holy one,
And just threw them in the well.

The words as such don’t say that much,
But we’re all looking for a magic refrain.
Till the ground until food abounds,
And remember to love your brother.
Live in peace until your end of days,
And never shed  the blood of another.