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When you get up |
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When you wake up, oh |
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Put your hands up |
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Pick yourself up, oh |
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And you pull yourself up underneath the dugout cubby enclave of the sidewalk overhang, |
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cement buckled upward and the rain came dripping through the crack. |
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We hear the voice of Italo sing of a holy fire. |
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When he stomped, the dirt fell on our eyes. |
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Hell, he stomped. |
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It was a mystery to me when you crawled out from underneath the sidewalk overhang, |
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cement buckled upward and the rain came dripping through the crack. |
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We heard the voice of Italo sing. |
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In the second zone of the city |
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a baby born in the nightclub mold |
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where goons dry heave the factory glue |
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all crust-lipped and bloody nosed. |
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Fire took the roof off, |
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hollowing the carcass (licked it like a bone). |
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Sway and moan to songs of some pitchless praise, stoned. |
