with the might of wasps in trapsnsixty ways of it coming backnand you left yours up to chancenbut with help we'll start fires withinnand burn through the glassnand it's not my need to seenif the dead still dancenbut it's in my design to believe that they're buriednto keep their old wearied and ivory bones held intactnni'll charge off fastnkeeping greater distance from present and pastnunder dark clouds from smoke stacksnwhere strange birds circle the skynin arranged pathsnnso the prince of shells and crabsnmoved the air with battery packsnand brought floods that burst through damsnwearing two bits of pridenthat father had forged him from waxnsomehow grace pours out from monstrous acts