A Life of Clay
| HRT
Every dawning day
My hands fill with sticky clay
A substance resistant to shape
One that defies my will to make
My hands are traitors
Beasts of pain and failure
Tools of necessity
Rotten through with mediocrity
Every dawning day
My hands fill with sticky clay
A substance resistant to shape
One that defies my will to make
My hands are traitors
Beasts of pain and failure
Tools of necessity
Rotten through with mediocrity