in that September off
|
Isle aux Morts
|
the desultory sea
|
grew more so through the night
|
|
and made one think of
|
tawny ports,
|
as aspen tremblin'
|
in tomorrow's thorough light
|
and of Tallulah Bankhead
|
and Canada Lee
|
somewhere far-off, peaceful, sleeping
|
and done with acting
|
|
past the Dire Wolf's lair
|
on a Newfoundland's paws
|
close to nowhere
|
and halfway across
|
|
but never more 'here'
|
expanse getting broader
|
though bigger boats been
|
done by less water
|
tho better boats been done by this water
|
tho better boats been done by less water
|
|
in that september off
|
Isle aux Morts
|
colourable seas
|
grew more to through the night
|
|
And made one think of
|
yawnin' shores
|
Gambier-bleached
|
in tomorrow's thorough light
|
|
and the Tallulah Bankhead
|
and Canada Lee
|
somewhere far-off, peaceful, sleeping
|
they learned to love sleep
|
|
at the Dire Wolf's crest
|
the Newfoundland paused
|
desolate's best
|
was gotten across
|
|
we were never more 'here'
|
expanse getting broader
|
when better boats been
|
done by this water
|
|
at the Dire Wolf's best
|
the Newfoundland paused
|
so desperate as
|
to be a lost cause
|
|
you were never more hear
|
expanse getting broader
|
when better boats been
|
done by this water
|
where bigger boats been done by less water
|
and betting boats been done by this water
|
when bigger boats been done by less water
|
and better boats been done by this water
|
|
-----------------
|
The Dire Wolf
|
| Tragically Hip |
