It is the capital
It is the refusal
It is the realism
That I'm referred to
I eloped when shit got real
To a castle on a hill
With a spur hung off my heel
But no rifle
I am kindly as a bit
On the saddle where I sit
With a stetson, perfect fit
But no rifle
I can show you to the killer
But I ain't got the instinct
I am on my cowboy shit with no rifle
There is memory, forgetting
And intention, that is it
I am on my cowboy shit with no rifle
Time, where does it go to?
Kills the things it grows to
Laugh at what we go through
I submit to love
Yield to understanding
Be a flock of doves
There is no reprimanding
When submitting to love
I eloped when shit got real
To a castle on a hill
With a spur hung off my heel
But no rifle
There is memory, forgetting
And intention, that is it
I am on my cowboy shit with no rifle
Yield to understanding
Be a flock of doves
There is no reprimanding
When submitting to love
Surender to you instinct
Surender to your gut
There is no understanding
I submit to love
