My god said I should bury the hatchet
Underneath my fake sympathy
I don't know what he told you
But that's what he told me
How'd I get here so low
I want to live when I'm old
And I'll be made of gold, but
What's the shape of my heart got to do with it
My god said I'm an ant on a hill
Right between the others
And he said that they're my brothers
And all I do is take
The message, not the ache
And my god looks a lot like me
In wrinkled leather shoes
I see the reds, but not the blues
For all my sympathetic views
I have a lot of trouble trusting me or trusting you
How'd I get here so low
I want to live when I'm old
And I'll be made of gold but
What's the shape of my heart got to do with it
How can I say I wasn't there when I should've been
I talk and talk, but never find the air
How'd I get here so low
I want to live when I'm old
And I'll be made of gold but
What's the shape of my heart got to do with it