Hommage à Tim Buckley... with lovely little backing vocals during the chorus. The last few lines are some of my favorite that I've written.

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Where is your golden hand?
To lift up the serfs of the dying land
To empty your pockets and clear out the stores
You keep it tucked away

Dressed in your neighbor’s clothes
Tread in their midst when nobody knows
They mourn and the cry but your eyes stay dry
And hide for the rest of the day

You speak other’s words to cover their bones
With your spade turned upsided down
Keep thinking it’s right to leave them alone
And the fool will not be found

Hang on to the easy days
Do what your fear and your logic say
Put on the cloak of pained apathy
It fits you like a glove!

Here is your golden hand,
Grappling madly to understand
Clenching a fist behind your back
And crying to fight for love!

At least I can say you’ve got inklings of guilt
That pool on the floor of your soul
And maybe, with luck, your poor heart gets a tilt
And spills when your body is old
And maybe, with luck, your poor heart gets a tilt
And spills when your body is old