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A Band Of Buriers
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Glass of bourbon
a poorly rolled smoke
then it's time to go home
spend my whole night
chasing your eyes
two flakes of burning coal
outside words climb towards the moonshine
as if mining for gold
in the cool dark very big dark
'neath which i walk home
Stalagtites cling tightly to the tiny perforations stationed across the sky
blankets of clouds crowd around the congregation of sparkles then slides on by
slides on by
slides on by
The wind plays and paints an art nouveau swirl within your hair
you'll go to pains to make straight come the wide eyed morning
yet still the curtains still so strangely still it feels like a sheet of solid steel or porcelain
i like your skin so very fair
compared to so much within these four walls
the severed ties i can't repair
i'll weave in nets to catch our downfall
and so i say to you i swear
nowhere could ever seem so dreary
within your palm a lock of hair
is smouldering and rising up oh so lightly
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snaking upwards
coiling along the ceiling
rebuild our cynicism there abreast
to all my mighty misty misplaced feelings
From my paper mache crown down to the skin beneath my toes
from my paper mache crown down to the skin beneath my toes i grow inwards
snaking upwards
coiling along the ceiling
snaking upwards
coiling along my ceiling
Glass of bourbon
a poorly rolled smoke
then its time to go home
spend my whole night
chasing your eyes
two flakes of burning coal
outside words climb towards the moon shine
as if mining for gold
in the cool dark very big dark
'neath which i walk home
slides on by
slides on by
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