Time cooks us, until we’re old and full of days
Until we’ve dug and drunk strange waters
Shelter in the rootplate when the tree is overblown
Lie with the darkness, it can’t kill you all on its own
Seek me in the morning, but I shall not be
My harp is turned to mourning, my organ to the voice of them that weep
None must, all may, some should, so why don’t we
Bring spirit, bring song
Bring warmth and wine to my table
Bee of the moment got to get the last feed
As any players in wheat and wine will tell you
The deep thrumming buzz of the grumbling hive
The sparks fly upward, bone-rumped cows mine the riverside
Rolling banjo prickles like rain across a pond
Whirlpools swallow lily pads, there and then they’re gone
Bring spirit, bring song
Bring warmth and wine to my table
Bee of the moment got to get the last feed
As any players in wheat and wine will tell you
The less spirit they have, the more body they need
When language goes walking, it needs something on which to feed
Silence is golden. The word is silver.
The clock reads “Each one wounds, and the last one’s a killer.”
