It ＇ s the demolition derby

It ＇ s the sport of the hunt

Proud tribe in full war-dance

It ＇ s the slow smile that the bully gives the runt

It ＇ s the force of inertia

It ＇ s the lack of constraint

It ＇ s the children out playing in the rock garden

All dolled-up in black hats and war paint

Sometimes it feels like bars of steel

I cannot bend with my hands

Oh - I worry too much

Somebody told me that I worry too much

It ＇ s these sandpaper eyes

It ＇ s the way they rub the luster from what is seen

It ＇ s the way we tell ourselves that all these things are normal

Till we can ＇ t remember what we mean

It ＇ s the flicker of our flames

It ＇ s the friction born of living

It ＇ s the way we beat a hot retreat

And heave our smoking guns into the river

Sometimes it feels like bars of steel

I cannot bend with my hands

Oh - I worry too much

Somebody told me that I worry too much

It ＇ s the quick-step march of history

The vanity of nations

It ＇ s the way there ＇ ll be no muffled drums

To mark the passage of my generation

It ＇ s the children of my children

It ＇ s the lambs born in innocence

It ＇ s wondering if the good I know

Will last to be seen by the eyes of the little ones