My Will Be Done

I have caught up on my fortune And I've burned up all that's left What remains is my surgeon focus That condescends to your success So take my easel and bury it down With the illusions of regret Follow close enough to see me But not enough to see my debt Oh, father Oh, ghostly son My will be Oh, my will be done What is fortune but the chance To drown your efforts easily With its lungs all full of salt and plankton Awaken to the worst of me With too much luck you end up thinking Your lowest thoughts are worth their sand And listen close enough to hear me But not enough to understand Oh, father Oh, ghostly son My will be Oh, my will be done Left bereft of all possessions Except your postcards from Berlin I'll let you know just how I'm doing From whatever town that lets me in But fortunes comeback incidentally Your lord's prayer gets turned around So love me just enough to miss me But not enough to track me down