Horns - Honig

The old man is sitting at home

Struggling with all that he knows

Basically moving ahead of himself

And everyone else is going back

And he’s fishing all night at the well

But there are no compliments here

There’s gotta be more than that

When the morning comes

The bright August lights

Burn in his eyes

And he’s all that is left

Wandering around

Wandering around

Wandering around

Wandering around