Lean upon a metal cane
it could be fair, it could be rain.
Rack ‘em up inside your brain,
a felt despair, a pocket pain.
Chalk the cues, no time to lose,
no time to lose, no time to gain
Saddle up, take the bit,
the cab is stalled, the meter lit.
Grab a dollar, take a hit—
who’s even known the perfect fit?
Sold and bought, I never got,
I never got a feel for it.
Count the doorways one to ten,
walk up the block and down again.
Smiling ladies, scowling men,
the fighting cock, the laying hen.
Hers and his, as now it is,
as now it is it will be then.
Sunday morning, sigh a prayer,
meet the gaze, deflect the stare.
Easy verdict, hard to care:
gold is common, iron rare.
Weathervane it could be rain,
it could be rain, it could be fair.
Sit and watch the trees.
Oh, they’re coming in great armies—
Even keel, what an odd belief!
Sunday silences are all too brief,
duty’s backbone in high relief
and I’ve been taking shadows for the night again
is a holy place
crusted over with a thousand names.
Even keel, what an odd desire!
Man of straw baled with chicken wire,
lean in closer, the world’s on fire
and you’ve been taking puddles for the sea again.
DW – vocals, acoustic, electric, and baritone electric guitars, flute, guzheng
JH – acoustic bass
JG – drums