Benoit Pioulard Shouting Distance
You'd cut a man down when his life is at its sweetest Cos he yearns to be found where the lamplight's weakest The picking of battles like new persimmons Not high in the saddle but torn to ribbons Oh the time the tone will lag & rush Traced in placid places growing flush Oh the time the tone will rush & lag Preside over design with smoldered drags A mural of moments of sharing progression Vireos on wires to sing hymns of confession They'll rouse a man's fear when it's dormant as winter As the yen to be near fetters faith into splinters Oh the tone the time will lag & rush His eye is on a sparrow & the thrush Oh the tone the time will rush & lag As the roofs & eaves deteriorate & sag
