Who is to say that when the ancient hands would turn the clay to gold
That in the mind of elders simple vessels only meant to hold
Burial curses lifted shifting off the detritus and mold
Reaching my fingers through the tunnels built by universal code

And the guilt I feel will never last
Stealing painted portraits of the past

Who is to say that when the artificer’s mallet falls to time
That in the hands of common people some would take and chant divine

And the guilt I feel will never last
Stealing painted portraits of the past

Casket opportunities who dare defile the tomb of the king
Casting darkened prophecy what kind of man would beg from his knees

Who is to say that when the ancient hands would turn the clay to gold
That in the mind of elders simple vessels only meant to hold
Burial curses lifted shifting off the detritus and mold
Reaching my fingers through the tunnels built by universal code

And the guilt I feel will never last
Stealing painted portraits of the past

Casket opportunities who dare defile the tomb of the king
Casting darkened prophecy what kind of man would beg from his knees

Oh no you see I'm honest I'm a scribe of history
The items I keep until the owners claim receipt
Guilty of a victimless crime, party to a separate time
You've got it upside down
On my knees I’m faultless
Honest