You pick the place and I'll choose the time and I'll climb that hill in my own way. Just wait a while for the right day and as I rise above the tree lines and the clouds I look down, hearing the sound of the things you've said today. Fearlessly the idiot faced the crowd. Smiling. Merciless the magistrate turns 'round frowning. And who's the fool who wears the crown? And go down, in your own way and every day is the right day and as you rise above the fear-lines in his brow you look down, hearing the sound of the faces in the crowd.