There's a ghost at the edge of the yardnAnd a husk, a shed and a gardennIt's a virus that swells in the grassnIt's the ration that stays in the waternnThere's a boy with his back to the porchnThere's a root, a jar on the floornIt's the field that is tied to his anklenIt's the fodder that sticks to the tablennThere's a ghost of a beast in the woodsnAnd a trace of a shell in the dirtnIt's the path to the place where he laynIt's the look of a crow on the grey