their mean women pulling poor blankets over our sailors
Im sick of dour faces Staring at me from the TV Tower, I want roses in my garden bower; dig? Royal babies, rubies must now replace aborted Strangers in the mud These mutants, blood-meal for the plant thats plowed.
They are waiting to take us into the severed garden Do you know how pale and
wanton thrillful comes death on a strange hour unannounced, unplanned for like a scaring over-friendly guest youve brought to bed Death makes angels of us all and