She walks around on brass rings that never touch her feet
She speaks in conversations that never are complete
And looking over past things that she has never done
She calls herself St. Matthew, and she is on the run
She stoops down to gather partly shattered men
And knows that when it's over, it will start again
Both the times she smiled it was a portrait of the sun
She calls herself St. Matthew, when she is on the run.
Part of it is loneliness, and knowing how to steal
But most of it is weariness, from standing up, trying not to kneel
She discovered three new ways, that she could help the dead.
Sometimes she must raise her hand to tell you what she said
Then standing in a landslide, she suddenly becomes
A girl that's named St. Matthew, and she is on the run.
Part of it is loneliness, and knowing how to steal
But most of it is weariness, from standing up, trying not to kneel
She discovered three new ways, that she could help the dead.
Sometimes she must raise her hand to tell you what she said
Then standing in a landslide, she suddenly becomes
A girl that's named St. Matthew, and she is on the run.

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