Beneath the covers, secrets can be found,
A lovers' tryst, a war-torn diary;
Days shared between the sheets can't be unwound.

All tragedy begins on common ground,
An 'X' where treasure hunters dig with glee
Beneath the covers; secrets can be found,

And feeling backwards from the fresh dug mound,
Each wrinkled line forgoes the mystery;
Days shared between the sheets can't be unwound.

The scented trail is hunted by the hound
Back to the lair; amidst the shrubbery,
Beneath the covers, secrets can be found.

From tragic end, to start, the tales abound,
Unveiling footnotes set in history;
Days shared between the sheets can't be unwound.

From crater can be plotted course unbound,
To scribe the book of life's trajectory;
Beneath the covers, secrets can be found,
Yet days between the sheets can't be unwound.

Beyond the realm of ev'ry living thing,
If testaments of old have any sway,
Therein resides a man born to be king.

Upon a lowly path, he sought to bring
Goods news to those who seek a better way
Beyond the realm of ev'ry living thing.

His guiding star, an angel on the wing,
Beckoned the wise unto the place he lay:
"Therein resides a man born to be king!"

He healed the weak, he helped the lame to spring!
And led the blind to see the coming day
Beyond the realm of ev'ry living thing.

His life betrayed, he felt the mortal sting
Of death; And of his tomb the wise would say:
"Therein resides a man born to be king."

Arisen by his father, angels sing
To preach the gospel, routing out dismay:
"Beyond the realm of ev'ry living thing,
Therein resides a man born to be king!"

Young men in France would clamber to that call,
To drink their fill of bottles filled with wine;
They lined them up and shot them on the wall.

Sat huddled in small cafes in the fall,
When news of war came creeping down the vine,
Young men in France would clamber to that call.

Their basic training taught them how to sprawl,
As target dummies waited in a line;
They lined them up and shot them on the wall.

They marched to battle, lean and fit and tall,
And when the whistles blew to give the sign,
Young men in France would clamber to that call.

In no-mans-land, their charge became a crawl,
And in the mud they cursed the German swine;
They lined them up and shot them on the wall.

The Germans countered, swiftly taking all
The captured and the wounded to a mine;
Young men in France would clamber to that call:
They lined them up and shot them on the wall.

When I am gone will these words still remain?
Pure thought without a voice or merriment;
What if my life was all for this refrain?

An angel sifted neurons in my brain,
To seek for aught of which I should repent;
When I am gone will these words still remain?

My demons tunnelled through me like a train,
Cajoling me to do their ill portent;
What if my life was all for this refrain?

My haunted past still lingered like the rain
And soaked me in a wave of malcontent;
When I am gone will these words still remain?

My soul was but a solitary grain,
That bloomed to grow until it's time was spent;
What if my life was all for this refrain?

Beyond my years, when long my bones have lain
Past living years of those who may lament,
When I am gone will these words still remain?
What if my life was all for this refrain?

Preach poverty and patience to the poor,
When snarling winter packs hunt down the old;
Push them away and shun them from your door

Feed hungry souls with sermons and rapport,
Old shepherds, keep your flocks unto the fold;
Preach poverty and patience to the poor

When heaven's snow attests to hallowed floor
And beggars plead for mercy from the cold,
Push them away and shun them from your door

When hungry children cry 'a little more'
And clamour forth with rusted tins they hold,
Preach poverty and patience to the poor

When brothers, plague and famine, reach the shore,
The weak and dying seek to be consoled;
Push them away and shun them from your door

When paupers come with frosted feet to thaw,
And fill the hall to hear kind words unfold:
Preach poverty and patience to the poor,
Push them away and shun them from your door

The reaper always comes for his dues
I know this to be true,
he stole my heavenly muse!

On my knees I begged him not, yet he refused.
No matter my threats he never withdrew.
The reaper always comes for his dues.

Never once have I been more bemused
when the reapers came through,
he stole my heavenly muse!

I was half asleep, just taking a snooze
then he appeared right in front of my view!
The reaper always comes for his dues.

He looked at me and my muse, like he was trying to choose.
His hands reached out, to grab my muse, then he flew!
He stole my heavenly muse!

Out my window they cruised,
I, with shame, never pursued.
The reaper always comes for his dues.
He stole my heavenly muse!

The path to a mind of insanity
can be seen as a gaping hole,
the one inside left hollow and empty.

Running from all signs of conformity
the truth is we are the ones who are full
of things only thought of as insanity.

Running from our own form of what we see
through the eyes which sit inside the skull
and wishing to be anything but empty.

“Don’t get caught up in the world’s vanity
or you will end up as nothing but cold”
are the words driving us towards insanity.

If the ones only filled with shallow glee
could understand our minds were carved from gold
and they will be the ones left aged and empty,

they would be forced to politely agree
upon the ones who have always been whole.
They are the jury and we plead insanity
while their minds and the prison cells stay empty.

Father, you are the blueprint of my soul,
And though I sense our parting drawing near,
The crucible of death will make us whole.

The day or hour is not ours to control
Yet even strangers read your passing here.
Father, you are the blueprint of my soul.

In paradise's fields I see a knoll
Where, shucked of flesh, we sport without a care,
The crucible of death will make us whole.

As age and weight make diamond from the coal,
So I am fashioned from your smile and tear,
Father, you are the blueprint of my soul.

I will not dread the shedding of my role,
A promise waits beyond the footlights' glare,
The crucible of death will make us whole.

So, father, do not fear to pay the toll,
I am the sun, your shadow I revere.
Father, you are the blueprint of my soul.
The crucible of death will make us whole.

He tried not to cry. With his trenching tool,
which weighed five pounds, he began
digging a hole in the earth. He felt a fool.

The intransitive Martha. Over Her letters he'd drool,
and over the burning fire he'd place the pea-can.
He tried not to cry with his trenching tool.

Bible in his knapsack, towards Than Khe the cruel
march agonized, where the burning cross would then stand
digging a hole in the earth. He felt a fool.

He sat at the bottom of his foxhole and rubbed the wool
sweater brought by resupply choppers. The other shouted from their holes, "How'd Ted land?"
He tried not to cry with his trenching tool.

"I swear to God-boom-down. Not a word." The others fueled
the rage-rage against the dying of the light. Jim felt bad
digging a hole in the earth. He felt a fool.