Come to take water And don’t get away. Bringing in medals and flags to hang From the east, saddled burglary. This is life under the moon. Commander makes home with sand creek
Weavers, false weavers!
Were we to dig, were we to bury? The grave is full To compensate for the magistrate Its recyclable Spending days asleep awake Till we see the bull
I have watched the crowds come, I’ve seen the bulls come The momentum of the past is consumed with the furious hunger of aching lips. I have watched the crowds come moving with a quick wrist, greeting Forgotten gods, making surfaces at the morning of repose
