| Never in the night | |
| When the knot grows tighter | |
| than fingers can untie, | |
| and all the last half-damned | |
| rivers have gone dry | |
| does the cock crow thrice | |
| until someone is denied... | |
| or the morning comes. | |
| And you wonder, will you | |
| get your shit together? | |
| And what is that? | |
| A leather sofa and a feather in an old fur hat? | |
| A fake tat' lost in a | |
| box of cracker jacks? | |
| Practicing your plane wreck | |
| face in the first-class lav'? | |
| That's what the ghost of someone's dad might say. | |
| And when they come calling | |
| I won't go calm. | |
| There is no palm or divine mitt | |
| with which to hold one's pit, | |
| or separate the human race | |
| from its environment. | |
| No scattered ashes loosely gather | |
| asking where the fire went. No. | |
| We're left with half-true psalms | |
| in an indecipherable scrawl, | |
| in some vague extinct language, | |
| ancient ink dull, almost vanished | |
| on some old brittle scroll. | |
| That's what the ghost of | |
| someone's dad might say. |
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