Watch for the night, when all of the crows take flight
And feast upon carcass, caressing
Vicious from a million miles away,
And my shadow fades into grey
And boxes on the floor sit next to carousels of colors for horse hairs, and the latitude of this altitude is clearly a sum greater then all the predetermined and previously decided upon factors to make all of this possible , but everything becomes backward as the slit of a knife, maybe can cut you a piece of the spice of life, a slice, a rope
Frayed and decaying in the jungle
Belonging to an old pioneer
Walking with feet that were bare
And only a compass upon his hip
And a machete custom made for such occasions and he cut the rope of the spice of life, and he stole all the light with that strike
Now now now he demanded