|
All the leaves have turned to leather |
|
I have lost faith in the spring |
|
Withered like a dark balloon |
|
Oh, I hear no robin sing |
|
Ushered with the shower still |
|
Oh, the rain falls off the leaves |
|
And a rim of shady light |
|
It forms these patterns on my hands |
|
I can see your ring |
|
Is it camouflaged or etched |
|
Tell the king |
|
To me this errand sent |
|
To call such a hole |
|
In the kingdom of the Lord |
|
That we are afraid |
|
Where there is no fear |
|
Oh, he fell into a slumber |
|
And did not wake until the dawn |
|
To see a band of orange clouds |
|
Cross the middle of the sky |
|
Oh, he got into a fluster |
|
He felt a tightening in his leg |
|
With such finesse he waived a hornet |
|
From a wine glass |
|
And tiny fluffs of the feathered life |
|
And you wander forth with your insolence and wine |
|
To your fruitless mourn to them that cannot hear |
|
And what the fuck am I doing here? |
|
In the ghettos of Chicago |
|
Amid the poverty and despair |
|
Inside the game hens |
|
Were the giblets in a plastic bag |
|
A cocktail which consisted |
|
Of his gin and her vermouth |
|
Garnished together with the pearl onions |
|
Dying eyes gleamed forth their ashy light |
|
Tiny fluffs of the feathered life |
|
And you wander forth with your insolence and wine |
|
To your fruitless mourn to them that cannot hear |
