When insidious revisions
And a lack of hot provisions
Take their toll upon the soul
You shouldn’t fret none

For the smack of unbelievers
And the cracked-open receivers
Make the bed that’s in your head
Seem like a shotgun

You’ll find the wind too chilly
And instructions given silly
But you’ll follow to the hollow
All the cowered

But without an extra hand
Pitching in to spread the sand
Any candle that you handle
Won’t be powered