Из альбома: Wishingbone
I suppose, when you wake up
And the dream you goes dodo
You will find, in your front pocket
One of those stubby golf pencils
Convincing living,
That you, yourself is convinced of living
Till your kidneys can't clean the convinced
out of your true blue blood stream.
And are you not now, professionally hoodwinked.
An easy street penis throbbing down breezy streets.
In a b-line like, easy like, bees like, broke down ice-cream truck's leaks
You see,
However so slightly permanent,
these have been things sung
That will never be songs.
Oh I suppose
Not swansongmeat
Nor bit nails spit
with strips of skin
from chicken's lips
not wet concrete
or stolen sleep,
when the water is sheets
and bleeding sheep.
Hung horrible hymns
to a durable beat
and re-recordable grief