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Joshua Powell & the Great Train Robbery
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The Farmer and the Viper
Kentucky snow/and my bones are fairly shaken
in the winter and its waking on the land I'm cultivating
and I watch a detonation of crows
Out of the dogwood/where the leaves all quit attempting
and the witchhazel is empty just like everything is dead
exempting me, out in the cold
And there he lay/like the devil was a cropper
on my family's farming proper, tiny bones and head of copper in the loam
shivering to death
He wasn't moving, and I knew the antidote
pity rose up in my throat, and so I put him in my coat to get him warm
and carry him back home
Well why should I oversimplify? It's good to be alive
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So logically, all living things are good if not misunderstood
and I will not play God, arbitrating, arrogantly designating who should live
Well then it happened—I bet you already guessed
when I called the cursed blessed he sank his fangs into my chest and through my shirt
and put his venom in the veins
As I was dying, I thought it rather fitting
that my heart produced the pity and that's the spot the snake bit me
and I know nature doesn't want changed
Well I should have compromised—I didn't realize the demon at my doorstep
But with one slash of Sheol's knife, he cut down the tree of life
And stacked the wood for kindling and the laughter that I'm sure will follow after this life
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