It has been- the same ole' scene
in this same ole', stock city.

I spend my moons- singing out,
baffoon -ishly,
this same ole' song of Eldorado.

I sing this same ole' song:
as the dead, golden grass
grows grand and green.

I sing this same ole' song:
as a sixty mile, whipping wind
blows through the Mississippi.

I sing this same ole' song:
under the succulent shine of,
the fullest of many moons.

I sing this same ole' song:
until I hear the beetles and worms
chew through this coffin,
deep in the ground of  Eldorado.