Boris McCutcheon songwriter musician Producer

Lyrics

Poor Tired Hands

O those poor tired hands, she won’t leave them alone.
This world is built, on the unknown, nothing here, is set in stone.
O those poor tired hands, victims of, a desperate land.
Hold them close, hold them tight, wrap them up, by candle light.
O those poor tired hands, pains me to see, those little lambs.,
Softly they will remember, softly they will understand, O those poor tired hands.
O those poor tired hands, like bent mirrors, at the fair.
Warped and bleeding, sitting there, untangling the knots, of despair.
O those poor tired hands, pains me to see, them a working,
Never resting, for a moment, fiddling endless, always jerking.
Searching for their eyes, searching for their heart,
searching for a sweet love, who will never depart.
O those poor tired hands, pains me to see, those hands
Softly they will remember, softly they will understand, O those poor tired hands.
O those poor tired hands.
Softly they will remember, softly they will understand.
O those poor tired hands!