What shall we tell them? A honeymoon brief as a walk in the park What shall we tell them when they ask? And they'll ask Could you not see another way out? Was the place without sun? Was it furnished in black? With the ache of the gas-oven there at your path A death-angel paces in boredom and waits It shrieks from dark corners undermining your faith What shall we tell them when they ask? And they will ask Could you not see another way out? Where were the cape and the coast-line? The wonder-kid's sunshine? Your sanity shattered in climbing the walls Wet towels at the floor-lines stuffed under the doors And the beating of powder-black wings left you blind The last days of December are the loneliest kind In the exit you made there was no pause for thought Cause the lies that I told were the lies that you bought There was no place to find you, no you to be found In the margins of books you were reading there were stages to grieving that won't let you down Where was the coast-line? The wonder-kid's sunshine? Under northern skies anonymous and free your night-fisherman pushes a boat out to sea You'll surely meet shores though his faith is unsound There are stages to grieving that won't let you down