When [bad word] 
They cover the Christ thorn
Two heads
And [bad word] heads
Serpents feet of emotion
Lidded eyes and smudged reality
Everything has two faces
One is earthly, without [bad word] form -
The other blackened and blackening

And mother is in the fields
Father is in the fields

You know well his tortured form:
It's locked within a particular place,
It's locked within a particular form,
It's jailed by a falling light
With angles shapes and size
It's held by [bad word] what
It's held in through place
It's an aim that has no name

Mother is in the fields,
Father is in the fields

It's a form creating formless
Formless creating form
Oh four towers reaping backwards
Do not spell the sound
Do not move to the lies
Speak the words and they create the universe -
And they destroy all universe

Mother sleeps in the fields,
And father, he reaps in the fields

Heavy-lidded eyes do not mask his pain
They shade us from the burning light
Listen: one face, one form, one [bad word] 
I see it through the shading glass
I see it fractured in the world
This is not [bad word] 
It's appearance only

Mother is in the fields,
Father is in the fields

An eagle flies above the skies
Behind bloody claws, behind bloody claws
His pain is blackened rain
His rain is Roman
Sire, the pain it is not finished
It happens now
Matchstick man in a matchstick world
Make the prime slice the sickle
Make the sickle slice the corn!
Time stops when he was thirty-three

And mother is in the fields,
And father is in the fields

Time stops when I'm thirty
Time stops there, and time stops then
Then is now
Oh, why do we not say it
Time stops, time breaks, time folds,
Time ceases,
And pestle grindes the mortar,
The mortar turns to dust,
The metal turns [bad word] 
Words they fail, they fall apart
The corn - it dies and is reborn

And mother stays in the fields,
And father is in the fields

Blond hair moves in the blond corn
Boyd wears black he talks of death
But all his faces spell out light
Michael's on the roof
He's kissing a rose
[bad word] from the heart of her life
Something hangs above there in the skies
Something hovers above his brown hair
Life without us in the background of light
And the birds don't sing
When the curtain snaps
Anita's in Ireland
She's falling over rocks
Stars of the sky, scars of the pain
And all scars meet in a falling star
And some make money from weapons' blood,
And some make money from fear's blood,
And some make money from hunger's blood,
And some make money from politics' blood,
And some make money from religion's blood
The world falls apart
The world starts to cease

And mother is in the fields
And father has died in the fields