All the leaves have turned to leathernI have lost faith in the springnWithered like a dark balloonnI hear no robin singnUshered with no shower stillnOh the rain falls off the eavesnAnd a rim of shady lightnThat forms these patterns on my handsnnI can see your ringnIs it camouflaged or etchnTell your kingnFrom me this errand sentnTo call such a holenIn the kingdom of the LordnThat we are afraidnWhere there is no fearnnOh he fell into a slumbernAnd did not wake until the dawnnTo see a band of orange cloudsnCross the middle of the skynHe got into a flusternHe felt a tightening in his legnWith such finesse he waived a hornetnFrom a wine glassnnAnd tiny fluffs of the feathered lifenAnd you wander forthnWith your insolence and winenThe fruitless mournnTo whom that cannot hearnWhat the fuck am I doing herennIn the ghettos of ChicagonAmid the poverty and despairnInside the game hensnWere the giblets in a plastic bagnA cocktail which consisted ofnHis gin and her vermouthnGarnished together with pearl onionsnAnd dying eyes gleamed forth their ashy lightnTiny fluffs of the feathered lifenAnd you wander forthnWith your insolence and winenA fruitless mournnTo whom that cannot hear