Four years in the saddle
Running the butter knife through every stick, be under the grime
My cavalry is drowning in quicksand
While every tent in my camp must be glazed, so let's be dry
And all of my generals, so timid, they make
Barely a siege, when I would in this whole camp peace
So look past the stains in my apron strains and get me to trust
Spread out like fingers, God's righteous hand gone through the dust
A noun is the name of the thing you got, trade like desserts towards the things that I must