Tip top over again,
The water drips down
The holy rim.
My cup runneth over,
Says the beggar to the thief.
Let's go over yonder
To see what to believe.
I yearn for something real
That grabs you one Saturday afternoon
When you're speeding around a curve
In the foot of the Appalachian hills.
Follow the preacher, the teacher,
The housewife comes and goes.
Pour the wine even better than before.
Lower the paralytic through the roof
To be healed by sacred hands.
Touch the robe of the holy one
And the ages of blood stop immediately.
Provide and share and they are blessed
Cornucopia all over again.
Fishes and loaves and ways to fill the belly.
Round we go, straight ahead, blindfolded.
Stumbling along the sidewalk 