Movement 1: FREEWHEELIN’ borrowed from a poet and walking the same halls he wrote the truth the poet wept and passed the torch along you'll stop your booing and even sing along as long as our dear country keeps it playing at number one chasing paper won't make you strong if money is the finish line you're seeing it all wrong every man knows we're just memories waiting to heal keep yourself close don't get lost in the lies of a mirror hungry making melodies to feed defiant songs a bag of coins will weigh you down until you starve and fall so stop your booing and even sing along as long as our dear country keeps it playing at number one breathe in just the meaning the media will call and fill your lungs with poison the smoke with fatal claws chasing paper won't make you strong if money is the finish line you're seeing it all wrong don't get lost in the lies of a mirror breathe with your fears ------------------------- Movement 2: VISIONS Time grabbed your arm and it spoke whispered it's time to let go the devil wears a costume he wear a suit and tie and he's standing out in the cold and God is up there laughing to himself again knowing that he's cursed us to grow old and silently she dozed off her cigarette in hand still the crumbling of those walls gave us hope and the faces we all know the defining canvas are washed away by those flames he found a certain rhythm in the street life down below from the bowery's finest to poverty's well known what makes you think that at the end of the day you absolutely, absolutely have to go home now that we know to laugh at what we do not know we're all guilty of closed eyes as we grow old ---------------------------- Movement 3: AFTER THE FALL For just a moment there i saw it my whole life written down in proofs still that vision sometimes hangs there but now it's bleached out by the moon don't be scared to let in darkness darkness balances the light and the sky as we know it would never get to shine oh Lord, why is it betrayal is the only truth that sticks in that room that measures greatness it was the holy ghost he kissed i open up my eyes each morning' to see the world and show me proof that my heart is still a beatin but now the fire back homes died too I'm looking for a simple constant that never is and never was you cut the strings between my fingers that was leading me to heaven's throne for just a moment there i knew it sitting on an empty bench and I finally found meaning as it held so many men and the day you stop becoming and you live just as you are well you might as well throw shadows on the face of God -------------------------- Movement 4: CHELSEA MORNING butterscotch or honey the sun rose either way but even Chelsea wonder couldn't make love stay the sweetest bitter ending was bound to show it's face a spotlight on their weakness they were too much the same could two perfect souls really make this wrong shards of colored glass made rainbows on the wall a painter and a boudoir poet couldn't seem to get along it was a different kind of chorus to that same gypsy song summer at the Hotel Chelsea was all that they had a love entwined in poems escaped so fast it was a different kind of chorus to that same gypsy song a painter and a boudoir poet couldn't seem to get along it was a different kind of chorus to that same old gypsy song -------------------- Movement 5: ON THE ROAD tired and beaten down or alive and full of bliss the beat is truly just a matter of perspective got up and dressed up then went out and got laid then died and got myself buried in a coffin in a grave do we have to hit the road searching for some hope are those the only four letter words that will guide us home and those New York City blues where millions travel through they'll give away their blood and tears just to make a buck or two so we might as well drink away the night and pass on through never their intent they're just writing what they know but it's always heralding a change in the dreams we should sow and that 12 foot page confession we buy because we're told I like my whiskey wild and my Benzedrine on time it's the jazz that will fill my veins like bullets typing on a page but i left those innocent eyes once i wrote my soul after 7 long years i was a searching 3 weeks i told let's call it anywhere it's for anybody anyhow and God is up there laughing at the poets once again because the radio needs us just like we need them so we might as well give it all away and head on west we'll go, 'til we find home.

borrowed from a poet and walking the same halls he wrote the truth the poet wept and passed the torch along you'll stop your booing and even sing along as long as our dear country keeps it playing at number one chasing paper won't make you strong if money is the finish line you're seeing it all wrong every man knows we're just memories waiting to heal keep yourself close don't get lost in the lies of a mirror hungry making melodies to feed defiant songs a bag of coins will weigh you down until you starve and fall so stop your booing and even sing along as long as our dear country keeps it playing at number one breathe in just the meaning the media will call and fill your lungs with poison the smoke with fatal claws chasing paper won't make you strong if money is the finish line you're seeing it all wrong don't get lost in the lies of a mirror breathe with your fears

Time grabbed your arm and it spoke whispered it's time to let go the devil wears a costume he wears a suit and tie and he's standing out in the cold and God is up there laughing to himself again knowing that he's cursed us to grow old and silently she dozed off her cigarette in hand still the crumbling of those walls gave us hope and the faces we all know the defining canvas are washed away by those flames he found a certain rhythm in the street life down below from the bowery's finest to poverty's well known what makes you think that at the end of the day you absolutely, absolutely have to go home now that we know to laugh at what we do not know we're all guilty of closed eyes as we grow old

For just a moment there i saw it my whole life written down in proofs still that vision sometimes hangs there but now it's bleached out by the moon don't be scared to let in darkness darkness balances the light and the sky as we know it would never get to shine oh Lord, why is it betrayal is the only truth that sticks in that room that measures greatness it was the holy ghost he kissed i open up my eyes each morning' to see the world and show me proof that my heart is still a beatin' but now the fire back homes died too I'm looking for a simple constant that never is and never was you cut the strings between my fingers that was leading me to heaven's throne for just a moment there i knew it sitting on an empty bench and I finally found meaning as it held so many men and the day you stop becoming and you live just as you are well you might as well throw shadows on the face of God

butterscotch or honey the sun rose either way but even Chelsea wonder couldn't make love stay the sweetest bitter ending was bound to show it's face a spotlight on their weakness they were too much the same could two perfect souls really make this wrong shards of colored glass made rainbows on the wall a painter and a boudoir poet couldn't seem to get along it was a different kind of chorus to that same gypsy song summer at the Hotel Chelsea was all that they had a love entwined in poems escaped so fast it was a different kind of chorus to that same gypsy song a painter and a boudoir poet couldn't seem to get along it was a different kind of chorus to that same old gypsy song

tired and beaten down or alive and full of bliss the beat is truly just a matter of perspective got up and dressed up then went out and got laid then died and got myself buried in a coffin in a grave do we have to hit the road searching for some hope are those the only four letter words that will guide us home and those New York City blues where millions travel through they'll give away their blood and tears just to make a buck or two so we might as well drink away the night and pass on through never their intent they're just writing what they know but it's always heralding a change in the dreams we should sow and that 12 foot page confession we buy because we're told I like my whiskey wild and my Benzedrine on time it's the jazz that will fill my veins like bullets typing on a page but i left those innocent eyes once i wrote my soul after 7 long years i was a searching 3 weeks i told let's call it anywhere it's for anybody anyhow and God is up there laughing at the poets once again because the radio needs us just like we need them so we might as well give it all away and head on west we'll go, 'til we find home.