The Hidden Cameras Follow

Colour of a man chiseled in stone
is the marker of a man ridded by woe
It is the colour of a man stuck in his grey
and the mood of his brood that he has painted on
His face is painted on with pools of clay
and the blood of an animal run astray

He is the colour of a man who plays in sport
And the wisdom of his words are simply taken on
He covers me with ash and falls asleep
I'm whispering the words that he has grown to love
Words can have a way to pull the string
A grunting of the "ifs" and "fs" and then the "oh"
It is simpler when I think about being no more than one of his many trophies
than to live with a man who craves the cold
and to be the one that has to ask for every dole

Stone men stand as if they own the place
The power that they lack it has been painted on
Worshiping them is the only way
Creating worth from ash that greys the every pore
is colouring the man with what he thinks he knows
The colour is infectious like the na ne nee ne na nee oh

I feel the weakness of his wishy-washy ways
in the rhythm of his hips as he pretends to love
and the heavy set of steps that stomp away
Such that is the colour of a manimalninamimalnimanimalnimanimal