The name of every landlord is displayed out on the awning

And the farmers in the amber fields were harmonized in yawning

As the memory of the ghost hung at the exit

And the city doctor called in feeling head sick

All the freedom-founding fathers

Altogether speak too soon

The sounds that mutter underneath

The glowing, Greek blue moon

As tide rolls up beyond the walking trail

So don′t have the native every mocking gale

React to it at your leisure, modern pressure

All the street were filled with carbon

And a pack of trembling dogs

The weather comes in from the east spills a Kremlin fog

As they fill the holes of every open tomb

In the factories of thirty broken looms

The sky was open wide

And it was pouring Civil War

The body that you carry was comprised of simple lore

Where the iceman at the cinema float anagrams

No no one could go past your little diaphrams

The stillness of the change in weather, modern pressure

That oasis sometimes lingers like a patch of blackened ice

The sellers of the row tap and locked and packed in twice

Only names are what remain to label view

Where I heard the praise of sex and table food

Up beyond the sunrise waits another pounding storm

Somewhere from the rubble sounds of nothing sounding born

At the zero grounds of future battle sites

While the gods still fill our heads with satellites

Take the seeds my holy thresher, modern pressure