Texty: Tori Amos. Indian Summer.

Indian summer, fresh mown grass,
Girls in the attic looking on them.
Indian summer, call me back,
Someone tell me there's another way.
Is it loud? Is it autumn that you're talkin' about?
Is it why? Is it lost on what I'm talkin' about, yea?
Is it just that you can't find a way out?
Find another way, another way to pray.

Indian summer, through the year,
On the medicine wheel, call me back.
Trap me in between, in between.
Somewhere West, somewhere South,
Anything West these days gets the blade, gets wasted.


Is it right? Is it really what you're talking about?
Everything that I feel you're talking about.
Sometimes I don't know what I'm hearin' now.
Is there another way?
There is another way, another way to pray.


He... he... he... he...


Girls take your hands like you pray,
On the ground, then back on your body.
Girls take your hands like you pray,
Through the blades of grass.
Gently... gently all over your body.
He... There is another way, another way to pray.


Indian summer, fresh mown grass.
Can you, Mr. Bush, light the sage?
Can you, anyone that's listening... find a way?
It is clear- it is clear-
We need another way, another way to pray