I heard that the angels
Carried Faust away into eternal rest
In spite of his great wager
For his love of truth had caused him to transgress
And I have always had a thing, myself, for beauty

There's a lazy little river
That flows through our town toward the west
And it's a figure of speech for
The way that I have learned to forget
All the lines that divide the ideas in my brain
Until I cannot distinguish comfort from pain

And I am washing my face all the time
I am walking a narrow line
And I am turning, turning, turning, turning,
I am turning red like wine.