He sink in the ground,
|
On these streets of 11th and Howell.
|
May he run down blocks and city halls,
|
To be drank by city folks and shivering crows,
|
To make this right.
|
All the way down to the Sound!
|
You'll be a sound mite,
|
And I'll be your roe.
|
And all of those blood types,
|
Become the sow.
|
He said he sold one leg,
|
To a mite on the corner of 11th and Howell.
|
So he could run down the throats,
|
Of any folks that he cared to choke,
|
In shivering clothes,
|
To make this right.
|
You'll be a sound mite, and I'll be your roe.
|
And all of you blood types become the sow.
|
Teeth jangling lie like lights supporting the whole thing.
|
They spit, drool slowly falls. Gelatin rain!
|
For the second embrace!
|
Opening eyes erases all sound.
|
|
-----------------
|
Woolen Heirs
|
| These Arms Are Snakes |
