Images on the sidewalk speak of a dream's descent 
Washed away by storms to graves of cynical lament 
Dirty canvases to call my own 
Protest limericks carved by the old pay phone 

In your picture book I'm trying hard to see 
Turning endless pages of this tragedy 
Sculpting every move you compose a symphony 
You plead to everyone, "see the art in me" 

Broken stained-glass windows, the fragments ramble on 
Tales of broken souls, an eternity's been won 
As critics scorn the thoughts and works of mortal man 
My eyes are drawn to you in awe once again 

And in your picture book I'm trying hard to see 
Turning endless pages of this tragedy 
Sculpting every move you compose a symphony 
You plead to everyone, "see the art in me" 

And in your picture book I'm trying hard to see 
Turning endless pages of this tragedy 
Sculpting every move you compose a symphony 
You plead to everyone, "see the art in me."