Blood absorbed into the bread of man Grows heavy on the plate If bread were eaten with every meal It wouldn't taste so great In every kitchen in every house On good days or in bad Content or bitchin' you turn to the light That falls on the things you had And it's always something Else you had in mind And you always notice When something isn't right Let the fork fall from your right hand Your hand Your hand Behold the rock and roll its mossy ass Over on its side Look to see the grubs and little silverfish Scurry from the light A child is playing with the volume knob And the radio goes dead A father speaks and then an ambulance Is heard outside your head And it's always something Else you had in mind And you always notice When something isn't right Let the stone fall back again Again Again