My Will Be Done

I have caught up on my fortune

And I've burned up all that's left

And what remains is my search in focus

That condescends to your success

So take my easel and bury it down

With the illusions of regret

And follow close enough to see me

But not enough to see my debt

Oh, father, oh, ghostly son

My will be, whoa, my will be done

And what is fortune but the chance to

Drown your efforts easily?

With its lungs all full of salt and plankton

Awaken to the worst of me

With too much luck, you end up thinking your

Lowest thoughts are worth their sand

And listen close enough to hear me

But not enough to understand

Oh, father, oh, ghostly son

My will be, whoa, my will be done

Left bereft of all possessions

Except your postcards from Berlin

I'll let you know just how I'm doin'

From whatever town that lets me in

But fortunes come back incidentally

Your Lord's Prayer gets turned around

So love me just enough to miss me

But not enough to track me down