The name of every landlord is displayed out on the awning
And the farmers in the amber fields were harmonized in yawning
As the memory of the ghost hung at the exit
And the city doctor called in feeling head sick
All the freedom-founding fathers
Altogether speak too soon
The sounds that mutter underneath
The glowing, Greek blue moon
As tide rolls up beyond the walking trail
So don′t have the native every mocking gale
React to it at your leisure, modern pressure
All the street were filled with carbon
And a pack of trembling dogs
The weather comes in from the east spills a Kremlin fog
As they fill the holes of every open tomb
In the factories of thirty broken looms
The sky was open wide
And it was pouring Civil War
The body that you carry was comprised of simple lore
Where the iceman at the cinema float anagrams
No no one could go past your little diaphrams
The stillness of the change in weather, modern pressure
That oasis sometimes lingers like a patch of blackened ice
The sellers of the row tap and locked and packed in twice
Only names are what remain to label view
Where I heard the praise of sex and table food
Up beyond the sunrise waits another pounding storm
Somewhere from the rubble sounds of nothing sounding born
At the zero grounds of future battle sites
While the gods still fill our heads with satellites
Take the seeds my holy thresher, modern pressure
