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Old English
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Farmer's Tan
There's a word in your cheek
Carved and red, soaked and sleek
As your heart beats through your sleeve
I can see what's made for me
I've been wasting
Earth and pavement
I've been chasing
Birthstone pagan
There's a line in the sand
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Of idle threats, idle hands
Where you fall, where you land
Hunting knife, farmer's tan
There's a scar, shallow stitch
Burn the dead, eat the rich
Under lights, crystal-tipped
Nametag on a crucifix
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