These soft hands have a grip
Of where the body they're a part of's going,
If it gets up in the morning.
Papa's jeans never fit,
Handed down his looks and nervous ticks,
But what about callouses?
He deserves each wink of sleep - white canvas is all he dreams of.
I dream of bombast abstractions,
Will they be something that he's proud of?
Will i ever receive applause from my creators or history's long thumb?
Will i ever go to bed thinking i earned my good fortune?
These soft hands on my hips...
We'll finally dance along to melodies we sing inside our head all day,
They'll stay with us 'til they see the light.
Until then, i'll give what i got, even if it's not special -
Cuz i learn what i'm not when i'm out of perspective.
I find i fall in at the very last second,
But my body makes it hard to leave a lasting impression.
These soft hands have a grip (i find i fall in)
Of where the body they're a part of's going (at the very last second)
But my body makes it hard...
It's what i'm working with, it's what i work toward,
Not what i'm working on, or who i'm working for.
Is it worth it?
It's what i'm working with, it's what i work toward,
Not what i'm working on, or who i'm working for.
Is it worth it? am i worth it?
And when it's done we'll dance and dance and dance.