sliver chalk 
Across the blue 
Lord knows I don’t know what 
The [bad word] s the use of the mid-day moon 

You came to my arms 
Too god [bad word] soon 
Lord knows I don’t know what 
To do with you and the mid-day moon 

This is just to say 
They’ve taken everything away 
Every step we made fit into 6 [bad word]  pick ups, drawing dust above the driveway 
The muddy cavalcade came at half past eight collecting everything in that grassy bank 
And every trace of you, was taken too, and what was once a womb is just a hollow room. 

It was a windy day 
That kind that makes me hate L.A. 
Cause god gave them a perfect sun and they think gangs and smog were hardly a fair trade 
And they don’t breathe or flinch, or even blink at how the green will shift
when the wind parades across the meager ridge and kicks the weeds a bit to make seem as if the lea is a sea of waves. 

They say you can’t cheat death 
Maybe it’s just a shortness of breath 
or no pains in your chest 
Just a disease we agree that we ain’t cured yet 

Forgive me dear 
I never thought that we’d end up here 
From “Sweet dreams” whispered in your ear 
Before a long night’s sleep so cold and clear. 

 [bad word]  

I’ve been told that when we die 
And we pass to the other side 
There is no bright light 

That death is just a pasture gate 
That opens by lifting a plank 
To just more life 

I met an old man, sun tan, provided by jesus and the light that passed through stain glassed pieces, he clutched a rosary flat to his chest, and confessed he wasn’t ready for death. 

I seen an iron eyed firefly femme fatale too vain to explain how her hair fell out, lusting for the next thing to erase her shame, she said “I don’t want to live forever, but I’m scared to fade away”. 

This is how they came to me one at a time, pilgrims to my building on the cemetery grounds, all they wanted was an answer and I could never let ‘em down…I couldn’t promise them forever but I could buy a lot of time. 

And you Jeanvieve, well you were the straw, whispering your wishes in cotton Québéois. 
I wonder the maker ever felt he botched the flock, but never had the mettle to make the world stop? 

 [bad word]