You are a man of impeccable taste
And you know when the X marks the spot
We all need a map for the trail of your thought
Where to go, the X marks the spot
You seem to have a misgiving
Hell yeah, you make a living
Don't add bricks to what we're heaving
We would so much
Rather enjoy beach, beer and a fire
You think something somewhere
Has a copyright for the world
And you've signed where the X marks the spot
You join a cult, fill the void that you've got
Deep within where the X marks the spot
There you stand, talk and holler
How dark were all your colors
When you paint another sunrise
You leave out the sun
Birds like you fly straight to heaven, heaven
Or they slowly float away
How well do you know those you're calling your own?
I mean... come on dude!
Your starving soul in your house of skin and bone
You're an island, the X marks the spot
There you stand, talk and holler...
Birds like you fly straight to heaven, heaven
Or they slowly float away...
You are a circus, but where is the clown?
There's no map, still the X marks the spot
There you stand, talk and holler...
Birds like you fly straight to heaven, heaven
Or they slowly float away down
Into the night with senior John Barleycorn
Heaven, heaven
Or they float slowly away