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Blaine L. Reininger
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Broken Fingers
When the feeble rears its ugly head
And the light refuse the shine
Put your shoulder to the rock
And remember better times
Broken fingers talk
They grasp at straws
Thought I heard a voice in there
There's no one there at all
Oh, what have we done
To come to this?
Huddled on some foreign shore
Standing the abyss
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Wake up in the afternoon
It's so hard to leave the bed
When you look up from the mud
You get kicked right in the head
Broken fingers talk
They tell us what to do
Guess I'll go out for a walk
It must be after two
Underneath gray Belgian skies
The ground is slick and wet
There must be some place else to live
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