The wooden lookout seven stories highnThe steeple at the top, it won't stop singingnsinging singing singingnIt's got a rigid rule number onenIt's to keep the bodies livingnThe last crooked sign to bend to thenway trees are growingnnThe usual size of a growth that's been tryingnfor several hundred thousand secondsnAllows you to drop from the eavesnto the leavesnin only several hundred thousand secondsnYou almost can see the fearless machinenmilling blindlynBeneath the calamity loomingnwhen the sun goes downnWe hope the clouds stop bouncing eachnother off the mountainsnWe hope the wooden lookout has a gutter it can usenEar to the ground alone where the edge of the day wasnThe valley clicking to the tape already rollingnMakes me want to turn the violin downnnThis wind wheel won't stop spinningnThis damn wind wheel won't stop spinning around