spinning in time, it's like death i believe
a thousand small cuts and a thousand wet leaves
he was a man best left alone
he closes her eyes, it's like death i suppose
out from the smog and the mist the story arose
old ben mcgee, listen to me
on a black horse thats running
down the street
old ben mcgee, listen to me
these pains I cant carry
or receive
there sat a watermark deep on his face
permanent lines that tears can't erase
the memories tear at his heart and leave not a trace
a miniature part played with castanet hands
here everythings free and nothings for sale
he imagines she flew out of there like a bat out of hell
old ben mcgee, listen to me
on a black horse thats running
down the street
old ben mcgee, listen to me
this pain I cant carry
or receive
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