I cut across a dustbowl, Indian autumn sky.
The land was parched and thirsty, like a widowed mother's cry.
I slipped through voodoo mystics, merchants and the thieves.
The air smelt like religion, enlightenment's not Free.
I saw it in the factories, where sweat has lost its price.
I watched it in the hospice halls, and I tried to hold a smile.
I saw it in suburbia, where bumper stickers preach.
If truth is all so relative, then why do we still reach.
Oh Feels like rain...
The road was filled with Followers, panting for a cure.
A streetside hippie guru, beckoned me "Come near".
His clothes smelled like patchouli, his blanket offered oils.
Tried to sell me talismans, for the road that was within.
Oh feels like rain,
I wish the sky would open up all over me...
The answer's in the question.
We've got angels on the television, prophets on the news.
Doomsday rocker scientists, to save me from my blues.
A spiritual awakening for the working stitch.
I never walk into the light, unless I know who turned the switch.