When his palsied hand was exactly between the catatonic brass cymbals (babbling about pause and other roses) I looked for gold.
A Thief who stole my sad days is finally in his cage again, eyes rolling back into his head without dominion or a madam, he's a madman
amid goddamned mississippi. The protest songs ruined my career, the love songs groom me for a double life, amphitheatres and hot clubs, I meant
(every word) saved, they saved my cures in secrets, the true songs did-- nothing--- but distract you, demonstrating their traction until the time comes to slip out into the night at long, at longing, look at longing, look it in its tragic eye there's laughter
