Mount Marcy is growing sparsenShe is the farce that I would like to tellnFrom the bottom of your wellnnFeel the bushes, brambles ramblingnAmple sapling, suckling all the airnAnd the North from Marcy's hairnnWhen my death-day comesnWhen my death-day numbs menI shall become onenI shall become nothingnAnd something!nSomething is the heaven-king for me!nnYour crucifixion-three-large-hills arenShadow-making over stilts we builtnOn the mountain's siltnnMarcy, you're my fav'rite love!nSeventeen and freckled like a soulnTo forget you would be sonHard on menHard on menHard on me to cut you from my dream-rangennBut we shall become onenWe shall become nothingnAnd something!nThat something is the heaven-king for me!nnBirds are chirping, you're usurpingnThings that I would never want to tellnFrom the top of your landfillnnWorkers smoking, all evokingnEvery county, full of filth and lovenTo which you're bound abovennWhen my death-day comesnFor certain, I'll be sorrynFor all that I have done indoorsnWhen outside sons were shiningnBlinding! Binding!nReminding me the heaven-king is one!