This same old carousel|spun my head around|now all my heads are tails|and all my ups are downs||while everyone struck gold|I failed in most regards|and everything I hold|seems to fall apart||We are beautiful failures and triumphant losers|masterpieces so broken that no one would choose us|Lord, my canvas has crumbled and needs restoration|by the hand of the artist who loves his creation||Now questions come undone|and soon it's plain to see|that with time we run|out of mysteries||'till there's nothing more to give|and what is right feels wrong|I thought I'd learned to live|but keep dying on||How could I be a token you'd be gladly dying for?|Now my nervous system is feeling not so nervous anymore|I put my hands in the wound bulging at the joiner's side|with these scars still outweighing any doubt I had in mine