The Furies have named your name
and torn your tickets up and thrown them to the winds.
Just ask the bums.
They'll turn away and hide their faces,
or bend to tie the laces
on their Rescue Mission shoes--
that's all they've got to lose;
but what will you do
When Tomorrow Comes?

The cards have all been dealt.
They lie there on green felt; Death tries to grin.
The fan just hums.
No matter how you rearrange them
you'll never really change them.
It's the same as all your sins:
Yeah, you can cut and deal again.
But what will you do
When Tomorrow Comes?

BRIDGE:
When Tomorrow Comes,
if the beggar's lies are true
there's a balance overdue,
and he acted like he knew,
so what will you do?
What will you do?

When Tomorrow Comes,
if the beggar's lies are true
there's a balance overdue,
and he acted like he knew,
so what will you do?
What will you do?

Your guards keep you alive,
but why, and to what end, even they don't know.
They roam your slums
and wonder if they'd lie down freely,
or follow in your tainted footsteps.
They talk behind your back,
and they always load their guns.
So what will you do
When Tomorrow Comes?


Copyright © Jon Storm. All rights reserved.