The Next State of Grace

Well I’m sitting here cooking
in the stew of the street,
I’m the part that won’t ever get stirred,
and as I am boiling I drink my own broth
and bend noodles to the shape of these words:

Oh when, oh when will I ever learn?
I can’t get to heaven
with wheels that don’t turn.
I’ve got no ambition and that’s a disgrace.
Guess I’ll sit here and wait for
the next state of grace.

Well I’m dug down so deep
in the trench of my heart,
I can’t seem to climb back out again,
and my voice is so distant
it can hardly be heard
by the women who pass in the rain.

Oh when oh when will I ever learn?
I can’t drive a girl home
with wheels that don’t turn.
I’m buried with pride
when I try to save face.
Guess I’ll sit here and wait for
the next state of grace.

And my mind hangs above
this emotional wreck
like a scavenger looking for parts,
and it lives in a mansion
that’s built from the sweat
of my tar-paper third-world heart.

Oh when, oh when will I ever learn?
I’ll freeze here on Earth
with a heart that won’t burn.
So I’m biding my time here
as god’s welfare case
while I line up and wait for
the next state of grace.