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, well, 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 and 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 down

Into the night with senior John Barleycorn



Heaven, heaven

Or they float slowly away…