Mother Mary went to her bed, laid down her head.

Mother Mary, next to socks she had knit

for size 5 in kids.

And Mother Mary,

she's got little class and she's got little style.

And Mother Mary keeps a journal of all the patterns she's tried.

 

And she knows what you don't,

and its eating her up inside.

And she keeps many things locked inside.

 

I took Riverside down to the Other Side

down where the ocean touched its nose with its tongue; it said, “Son, you've got a long way to go.

Here's your cross, pick your road -

here's your cross, pick your road.”

 

And she knows what you don't,

and its eating her up inside.

And she keeps many things locked inside.

 

Take your pictures, and your pain

and lock them far away,

Cuz the one thing that's guaranteed

is that they're bound to change.

And you never know when tomorrow

may be in yesterday's obituaries,

and you're dying, trying to find heaven in a cemetery.

You'll find that the mind that you love to speak

don't mean a damn thing, it don't mean a damn thing

And all of these words, they're drowning the earth -

all just static on every frequency.

 

Mother Mary knelt by the grave,

where nobody'd stayed.

Carrying those worn out socks and her little box.

And Mother Mary, she laid down the socks

and opened her box and remembered

unlike everybody else who'd forgot

what his eyes were like, his voice was like,

his smile was like, and she was like -

“People!

Spend all of their thoughts like tokens at a fair,

but no one's a millionaire - lest we forget!

To treasure some inside, they'll get trampled on and modified 'til no one knows a truth from lie,

just speaking words to get a rise,

and then before you realize -

we're all dressed up in brand new lies.

Don't dare back down – might soil your pride!”