Pushing down on pottery,
Kettles singing marching whistles;
Spider broaches fast moving,
Fast approaches;
Your red hair was fake but the green behind the ink was reminiscent of the summer you sewed me together;
Now I lay here with my son, and tell him stories of all the women who will never be his mother -
It's bedtime somewhere in Palesburg,
Where the children hide under staircases and don't believe in a man named God;
As she walked by me, she swore she had no intentions of putting her clothes back on,
And that if I was dying tonight that I wasn't going to be doing it alone
And we walked together; a wall of dying men, telling our sons we can't ever be their fathers,
For we are soulless beings and the vultures they have for mothers will replace them with nicotine and kerosene kisses,
Somewhere in an unfamiliar place called Palesburg,
Bags of gold allured our love ones away
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