No shadow
|
No stars
|
No moon
|
No care
|
November
|
It only believes
|
In a pile of dead leaves
|
And a moon
|
That's the color of bone
|
|
No prayers for November
|
To linger longer
|
Stick your spoon in the wall
|
We'll slaughter them all
|
|
November has tied me
|
To an old dead tree
|
Get word to April
|
To rescue me
|
November's cold chain
|
|
Made of wet boots and rain
|
And shiny black ravens
|
On chimney smoke lanes
|
November seems odd
|
You're my firing squad
|
November
|
|
With my hair slicked back
|
With carrion shellac
|
With the blood from a pheasant
|
And the bone from a hare
|
|
Tied to the branches
|
Of a roebuck stag
|
Left to wave in the timber
|
Like a buck shot flag
|
|
Go away you rainsnout
|
Go away, blow your brains out
|
November
|
|
-----------------
|
November
|
| Tom Waits |
