In the morning I see you cryingnNo one is around at this ungodly hournAll the whiskey in your bottlenNo more than the canvas on the pagennOnce an angel in the eveningnHelped you pour it down and shut it outnYesterday I saw you realizenShe don't come here anymorennNow, when you lay down to sleepnEverything you dream will lose its meaningnMusic you've tried to createnWill only transmit soft and ?nnSorry that it's come to thisnSurely you must have knownnYou were going downnnIn the evening I see you smilingnEveryone's aroundnBut when the sun goes downnAll the whiskey in your bottlenIs no more than a drink to pass aroundnnOnce a wise man told younWhat you don't finish will finish younYesterday I saw you realizenHe don't come here anymorennNow, when you lay down to sleepnEverything you see will take on meaningnMusic you've tried to createnWill only love you un... that you ...ase...nnSorry that it's come to thisnSurely you must have knownnIt was coming downnn----nnHere lie that last manuscripts ofnCarter John LeibowitznThe last living man in the loneliest townnOn the desperate bordernOf southwestern CanadanHe wrote all his poems in invisible inknAnd then buried them all in the snownnAnd then when finally Carter John LeibowitznBurned up in a passionate firenBorn of his own convictionsnAll of his poemsnWere eaten by wandering foxesnnThey'd been written on the blue skinsnOf ten thousand berriesnTraced like the peachesnOf those children uncarriednCommitted to form by a hand whichnKnew nothing of formnnSo here lie the last manuscriptsnOf Carter John LeibowitznWhich no one has read fromnWhich no one can read from againnnNow the same could be said of nMiss Margaret TurtledovenShe sang all the songs she made into a jarnThen she capped them with sealing waxnPlanked them and screwed them fastnShe flung them down in a well andnPoisoned the aquifernAnd covered them over with mudnnAnd when Margaret TurtledovenHad buried the things she lovednShe found there was nothing dugnCould never be undugnShe poured herself down the holenAnd mined for her lost jar of songnnBut the ground was well satisfiednHer table was emptynThe roots of the hollow treesnHad filled themselves plentynThe kings of the undersoil had pourednAll her songs down their throatsnnThen Margaret TurtledovenThe last thing she ever sungnA song in a broken keynA tune with no melodynA verse with no words to singnWhich no one has ever heardnWhich no one can ever hear againnnNow you steel down your passagewaysnAnd hide mirrors on your stagenAnd everyone is watchingnAs you fall through the floornBut remember what I said to younThe best thing and only thing you donIs disappear nWhen anyone calls at you you cut and runnThis is the only magic that you knownnAnd you walk through your endless daysnAnd gather your bills to paynAnd the women that you cower withnWill never bare your childnAnd the only way you'll never dienIs writing songs, poetic liesnAnything to make your legacynnBut the ground will one day open upnSwallow you in itnThe work you've done is now undonenYou never began itnThe only thing immortal is the epitaphnWe will carve in your stonennHere lie the last manuscriptsnThe words to the songs unwritnThe poems in it meaninglessnThe memories of what you didnCollected in your consciousnessnThe only thing you ever madenThe only thing you ever werenThe only thing you'll ever benWhich no one has read fromnWhich no one can read from again