It's a hell of a wail but nothing stirs the stones of Rome.
And the football field is sponsored by the funeral home.
The gears are greased with folly, the sun it rises and the Widow falls. And still the shadows stretch across the walls.

Yet when the restless gavel of dread lit,
its sudden frankness broke through the slanting sticks of sunlight and the coils of smoke.
And all was clear and crisp, inked colors glistening with glaring grief. I poked the air in disbelief.

Now say goodbye to the future.
It's coming down with a fever.
And though there's no harm in hoping,
there ain't much sense in it either!

Ah, the conspiracy of meaning!
The spirit of the beehive!
The belief it will amount to something
that makes us flip to the b-sides!

And when the little lad delivered a letter with 5 orange pips,
he watched the lost years struggle on our lips.
And I took to my heels but trouble travels on a quarter horse.
Look for me in the weather reports...

For truth is wrapping around me
like Spanish moss on a cedar elm.
And I've been told it's addictive,
but mostly it's overwhelming!

And so I try to remember
to let it unravel lightly,
and tip the balance in favor of breathing
ever so slightly.

The four angels are wavering
with each spread of newspaper.
"There's been a crash in the Alps, dear"
and "the plague has crossed the equator!"

And Brian Wilson is singing
Through the speakers' distortion:
I am a rock in a landslide
I am a cork on the ocean.