I have known the blade, the blossom, and the fruit; and now I know their withering
There are mountain hours that take all day to climb
And downhill days you descend singing
One eye on the crowd and one on the moon
Your father was the rough sea, and you are the schooner
Sails grown big-bellied with the wanton wind

I sing of bars and the man
the scars and the bands
the barchipelago
Scattered dots on the map
Morse code lines that trap them
in the punk rock telegraph

“I don’t think about the past”
backed with “My memory is poor”
Which is the A-side, I’m not really sure, but

New river, spring for me
Spill your way across the open country
Carry me down to the vast sea
A bronze-bound vessel with a bone in her teeth

New river, spring for me
Carry me down to the wild sea
Spill your way across the open country
Neither for me the honey or the honey bee

There’s a pretty bad sound coming from the right front wheel
But not too bad if you sing along in key
The return of dreams the first week of sober sleep
The rush of eager overwhelming feeling

People try to be good, but not that hard, she said
Lined up at the banks with their beaks open to the sky
Squawking forlornly as if waiting to be fed
And every night before I go to sleep, just for a moment, I wish that I was dead