Verse 1 A man in a room with a door he could open, a key he could turn any hour of the day. He tells himself, wait — don't reach for your token till the work in your hands has been carried away. But nothing stands watch. No gate, no machine. The verdict is his. The verdict's unseen. Chorus Call it what you call it, it isn't the same as the click of a switch, or the mark of a name. When the one who behaves is the one who decides, there's no independent hand on the other side. Verse 2 The pigeon can't argue the peck was enough, the lever's own tension will settle the count. But a man at his desk, when the reading gets rough, can call the page finished on his own account. He isn't in error. He isn't unkind. He's simply the judge and the jury combined. Chorus Call it what you call it, it isn't the same as the click of a switch, or the mark of a name. When the one who behaves is the one who decides, there's no independent hand on the other side. Verse 3 And still — he doesn't cheat. He finishes the reading. He turns in the work before he turns to play. So what is the force, what current is leading a man who could stop to keep going instead, and stay? Not reinforcement. That word's just a mask. The real explanation's a harder-set task. Chorus Call it what you call it, it isn't the same as the click of a switch, or the mark of a name. When the one who behaves is the one who decides, there's no independent hand on the other side. Verse 4 Look for the skin that reacts to the scratching, the son whose own progress is proof of the try. Look for the eye that's outside of the matching — that's where the contingency actually lies. Not in who hands you the prize at the end, but in who says you've earned it, and can't be your friend. Chorus Call it what you call it, it isn't the same as the click of a switch, or the mark of a name. When the one who behaves is the one who decides, there's no independent hand on the other side.
