Oh, oh, yeah
Mmm, do-do-do- ah-ah
These are the days of the open hand
They will not be the last
Look around now
These are the days of the beggars and the choosers
This is the year of the hungry man
Whose place is in the past
Hand in hand with ignorance
And legitimate excuses
The rich declare themselves poor
And, most of us are not sure
If we have too much
But we'll take our chances
'Cause God's stopped keeping score
I guess somewhere along the way
He must have let us all out to play
Turned his back, and all God's children
Crept out the back door
And it's hard to love
There's so much to hate
Hanging on to hope
When there is no hope to speak of
And the wounded skies above
Say it's much, too much, too late
Well maybe we should all
Be praying for time
Do-do-do-ah-ah
Mm, whoa, whoa, yeah
These are the days of the empty hand
Oh, you hold on to what you can
And charity is a coat you wear twice a year
This is the year of the guilty man
Your television takes a stand
And you find
That what was over there
Is over here
So, you scream from behind your door
Say what's mine is mine and not yours
I may have too much
But I'll take my chances
'Cause God's stopped keeping score
And, you cling to the things they sold you
Did you cover your eyes when they told you
That he can't come back
Because he has no children
To come back for
It's hard to love
There's so much to hate
Hanging on to hope
When there is no hope to speak of
And the wounded skies above
Say it's much too late
So, maybe we should all
Be praying for time
Do-do-do
Oh, oh, yeah