Autumn tickles the oaks, a jet turbine from a distance
Ah, travel a mile east
You shall find a nation of warriors, savages
Rabid dogs, bathing in sin, filth and blood
Electrons, revolving around a lost cause, a source of income that only causes problems
Sure, material items are fun, but what is the driver to this inevitable problem?
Ah, hear the sound of Satan's sweet axe
As another head rolls, the crowd erupts in satisfaction
Sure, I may be an annoyance
But you have to think as this metal edge falls
We're all under the plank of wood, vomiting into a bucket
There is a deadpan; the savages stop
A great shadow dawns apon the time, a forgotten grandfather
Situating light, a dark light
The crows have a meeting, deciding how they should manipulate, stretch, twist and pull on this godforsaken sphere
Sitting in the plastic chair, slowly collecting yourself
Attending your own funeral, as the storm rages on
Ah, but there is a clean, ripe apple in every rotten tree
The stallion of luminance gallops across the wheat, having no rider
A radiant glow, as the cruel sun turns into a kind, beautiful night
Rest.
