the archers have their fingers
pointed squarely at the hotel singer
smoke on the edge of their mouths
coiling sweetly all across the house
and the trees will part
for a song and a blood sacrifice

bowed low over a guitar
trying to teach himself the meaning of pain
sitting in the dark of a car
doing his best to convincingly feign
the long-suffering fool
with everything to gain

her ashes sunk in the sand
and the rest went over the electric dam
in the dark the mournful loon calls
as trumpets echoed in the concrete halls
and the rapids will churn
with a growl and the whisper of a lovely fern