24 years old and November hit me hard
I didn’t have a wife and kids, a Jaguar or a job
I was lost inside myself, just living day to day
My story was over and it was time for me to walk away

Walked past the faces of the people I had known
Walked through the future and into the unknown
Came face to face with a stranger in my mind
I asked his name and he said it was the same as mine

Chorus:
Forgetful prophet, his name blows in the wind
Forgetful prophet, he calls himself a friend
Telling us his stories about how the world will end
But try as he might he can’t remember where he’s been

He called himself a writer, he called himself a king
He didn’t really call himself anything
He called himself a pawn, a player in the game
He called himself a writer who’d forgotten his own name

A basketful of apples, a kettle full of tea
Two tears in the bucket for a future yet to be
Bloodstains on your fingertips, you cannot wash away
Sins that you have not commited yet, but you will someday

(repeat chorus)