My lover’s hair is caught up in the wind’s path
And begins to interweave.
The breeze is caught up in each strand
And begs desperately not to leave.

Mother, O mother,
You'll spit on my bones,
When I die, know I've tried, but my mind and heart froze.

You'll shout from your high horse,
and your empty shell,
That you'd **** me from heaven
If you could, to hell.