Howlin Rain Calling Lightning With A Scythe
On Sunday I found your rotting bones
Oh my old friend it’s so hard to let you go
Of course time is a drifting thing. Drifting us a part
But who knew the tide would take us so far
Took a train on past the lonely arms of this town
And got off at the dust of the city’s bloodshot eyes
At the station we stood around for transformation
While the stoned vultures fell upon your grave
We are only slaves to our ghostly arms and legs
Got us dancing in our graves
And they lay around in the wreckage
Of this pitiful little world
I headed out into a Jasmine field
Underneath a thundercloud’s dark and watchful eye
The tubes that kept the old sun lit began to die
And bruised light and berry vines creep into the night
A thousand burning flash bulbs exploded from your eye
When you tipped your pretty head and let the laughter
fly
Oh my failing useless brain would melt beneath the
softest rain
And drip onto a picture of your smile when you were
young
We are only slaves to our masters’ memories
Keep us staggering through the days
To lay around in the weeds of our dusty little dreams
From the so-called heaven, there came not a sign
But just one lightning bolt that hit me in my mind
From my head my greasy blood fell into the flowing mud
And ran away from my skull like restless memories
There beside the glassy stream I layed my head and let
it bleed
To the song of crickets in a tragic symphony
The bullfrogs roared beneath the banks
Like the sound of Sherman tanks
Engaged in the destruction of everything that breathes
We are only slaves to the falling bombs we made
With such loving craft and shape
They leap upon the sky and the heavens’ golden braids
