Five-Letter Word (a riddle song)
[If you think you know the answers to the 2 riddles in the song below, send me an email to nakedtroubadour@gmail.com and if you are correct I will send you a free download link to one of my music albums!]
It shines in the shadows;
it shines where the sun shines least.
It lights up the basement
and the feeding grounds of the beast.
You can always see it coming
and run from its rays, if you please.
Many love to destroy it –
to stifle its profound effect.
Its engineered suppression
is what they call “Politically Correct”.
The ones who hate its outcome
ensure that its credentials will be wrecked.
[Refrain]
You think you can hide from its heartaches
You think you can deny it as a friend
You think you can remain beyond its shadow
But you will never escape it in the end
A witness swears to tell it –
the whole of it and nothing else.
It frees you from deception,
yet telling it can make your world a hell.
It will break those who resist it
but it soothes the broken soul as well.
It’s stranger than fiction –
its beauty gives your heart a treat.
It’s more than just a virtue;
its objectivity’s so neat.
It’s only worth pursuing
if you think you can take all the heat.
[Refrain]
You think you can hide from its heartaches
You think you can deny it as a friend
You think you can remain beyond its shadow
But you will never escape it in the end
The captains of darkness
try to drown it in their brine.
They pretend that its survival
was all part of their grand design.
But the thing they love the most
has a letter missing from the line.
When Pilate said, “What is it?”,
there was no answer given.
That’s because it’s always obvious
and only rarely hidden.
If you refuse to know the answer
then to you light will always be forbidden.
[Refrain]
You think you can hide from its heartaches
You think you can deny it as a friend
You think you can remain beyond its shadow
But you will never escape it in the end
When I see the ruins around me,
it’s clear that it’s fallen in the streets.
In a world built on illusion,
it’s trampled with much anger under feet.
Yet there’s nothing that I know of
which can with this thing I speak of here compete.
© Alan Morrison, 2019
The Naked Troubadour 