Saint Tony Glo was there playing his guitar
reading the lines of that brow
doubt casts shadows
like eyes that cast questions
on our lives
saint Tony Glo had shown us the slats of wood
Pattern of a christ well forgotten
holy simplicity our eyes just won't adjust
How can I be clean
In my life
Saint Tony Glo sings of air hammer
ancient mist and uninterrupted epochs
that are now disturbed by mental leprosy
seeing him sat there the young scroll through
passed the medicine that he is
Not able to get the answer
the fresh clue he sends through voice
and in the slats
longtime pain that all came to nestle on the same days
that attention seekers found God
The Agnostic chime and rhythm shakes us out of slumber
Saint Tony glo has seen the lines of the earth
the lies and betrayal sewn into baskets
of the ungrateful pedestrians
who overwhelm the streets and shops
unable to assemble an identity
with the nick nacks trinkets and blankets
the aromas and threads
the slang they sling fed
Their attempts at plainess
the chorus warns us perilously
worship what is ferrel not ingrained
yet we reach for strips of entertainment
losing ourselves further from the grand God that laughs from a far
at our attempts to comprehend our existence
Yet Tony Glo my first saint percieves
that these ups and downs colors and shades
times of the day flurry of emotions
compound confusion need to be mined
for those meager grams of meaning
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