The (Bb)man of a thou sand (Dm)fac es

sits down at the (Dm)ta ble,

(Gm)eats a small lump of (Bb)sug ar

and (Gm)smiles at the moon like he (Bb)knows her.

He be gins his qui et as (Bb)cen sion

with out an y one’s stead y in (Bb)struc tion.

To a place and no re (Bb)li

(F)gion,

he’s found a path to her a like ness.

His words are qui et like stains are

on a ta ble cloth washed in a (Dm)riv er.

Stains that are try ing to (Bb)cov

(F)er for each (Bb)oth er,

or at (G7)least blend in with the pat tern.

Good is bet ter than (Dm)per fect,

scrub ’til your fin gers are (Dm)bleed ing.

And I’m cry ing for (Bb)things that

I tell (Gm)oth ers to do with out (Bb)cry ing.

He used to go to his fa vor ite (Bb)book stores

and rip out his fa vor ite (Bb)pag es,

and stuff them in to his breast pock et.

The (Gm)moon, to him, was a (Bb)stran ger.

Now he sits down at the (Bb)ta ble

right next to the win (Bb)dow

and be gins his qui et as (Bb)cen sion

with out an y one’s stead y in (Bb)struc tion.

To a place and no (Bb)re li gion,

he’s found a path to her a like ness.

And he eats a small lump (Bb)of sug ar

and smiles at the moon like he (C)knows her.