Black fly, white tile, bleed oil, red tile
I've been confused, and do not grieve to admit it
Those who are so true convinced are standing on a leaking ship
Concealed, by some hidebound definition,
The sand we're standing on will show us,
That it’s not some rock that owns us
Now, endless summer dries you up, underneath the browning sky
You live where birds don’t chose to fly
But I've seen, the rat among the dreams
The fly in every ointment and the crude oil in the cream

Do not write lyrics for this song
I'd rather swing a sword of dust than blow the golden horn
"Where did we go wrong?"
A cloud may wear a lining but still it holds a storm
And I know that nothing good is going to happen but I don't know when.

The brown dove takes it's flight
From the hotel parking lot
The others get bled white,
And tagged when they are caught

Behind the color chrome house
The calf is whining low
Like a drunk who makes his crying
Among the church’s silent rows

Crossmaker wordtaker say
Why not that heavy other way
Out from the eye in a ray
Why not that heavy other way

Whitebled
Sensitive subject
No-one’s trying
Any other way

Whitebled
Men cost money
Mausoleum
Heavier the tomb

When I spit out the medicine, of the cross and weary way
And the fog lifts up and leaves us, we notice that it’s day
And every worn-in delusion is naked and exposed
The terrified myth is crownless, groundless, only feeling cold