Oh' the sad song which I praise
Makes me remember a man of misery
Praying to heart that doth not beat
But calls like a hawk in the scattered sky

Not here am I alone
Not here am I stone
But gone in a song of
Dear Bob that receives nothing
But the muses of the ages

Cool nothingness
You caress me like the wings of the sages
Just when I saw and knew
That all I had to do
Was be with you and true

You were the way I wanted to be
Each river be that twisted
Cold with torrents like fresh flour sifted
To turn in time
To live like in rhyme
Harmony
In the purest of senses

So long in the hearth of hearts
Each reflecting a brilliance
That is a mystery to us both
Spread out like butter on toast
Nodding off in the wake of the dawn
So long
So long
So long
We bear the mark of lovers torn
That Juliet
Is the sun

Cool now with the wind
That topples only the naked man
Where bears lay out like old men
And tickets take their tick
Like the clocks do our loves

Oh' every life is nothing
When it is involved with the song
And the twanging guitar echoes in the caves
Of lost time and Proust -
Though in spectacles and smoke -
Even seems to have the fear of the ages

Cats got your tongue
And all I've got is a gun
And the sun
High and ****
Makes sure I'm warm
And each swarm engulfs the coming storm

But pray
Not for me for
The Man I see is not me
But I

Fighting for the right
To take each
Rule
And rue
The day that everything
Meant nothing
And
Sweet mystery
Like honey
Like sun
Like *** and doves

And each longing on poses
Statue of old
Makes the crooning mad
Take care of the voices
Oh' nothing to one

All in thought
All in the way you hit
Philosophy in words but the herd
Takes your hand
Into a hill all in spill
Caressing the ***** of your soul
Though pull
Strains for your eye

Dead heathen
That peddles in the mud
Of the whitening tide
Each ocean that takes you away
Merely makes another

I know not of what voice
The grass gets its blow
I only know that the brilliance of the word
And the ways of the world
Takes me down upon its pedestal
Where sacrifice and life
Are one
And the same

Ring the bells
Of the muted and the left
Where streets are the number
And meek ones the few

And with the spread of
The high plateau of fields
Each memory their own
Every person so in sewn