I've seen the ghost of you.
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I've touched the ghost in you.
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Your face has begun to show the hurt you've done by you.
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Your money in masses can go with your ashes alone with you.
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Like you always do.
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This pile of bones
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was last week's crowd
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and you walked with your lower surface,
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your feet touching the ground.
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For more lowly sounds.
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For more low sounds.
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Like you always do.
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Child kitchen play like you finally got into the sweet,
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now there goes your teeth.
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Skinny chicken beak pecking into a filth street like it's oil
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that it wanted to eat.
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Lost in a surface hole buried down so low.
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You can smell the flowers right from where they grow.
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We got nickels on how long the show will go for.
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It's blood, it's blood.
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Your beast of a heart.
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It's blood, it's blood.
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Siphoning more blood.
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You beast, you beast.
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Taking more wet dirt sound than you need.
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Touting your catch as if it tried to get away.
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The blood-stained teeth you bare are showing a lot more than you'd care.
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And I wil be in small towns.
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I will be in many towns.
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Though these hills they roll
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they soon will fall.
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Though these hills they roll,
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they will soon become nothing.
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-----------------
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Child Chicken Play
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| These Arms Are Snakes |
