There's no silver where I come from,
you must excuse me.
If my words come clean at all I shall rejoice.
My servant here is very dear,
I water him with care.
And when he's in the flame we share a voice.

He is in the flame when he is singing.
And he's singing for ya now so listen close.
He tells us that the lines of love are never far apart.
He tells us that the lines of love are crossed.

I gave my money to the bowl bearer standing at the stone
of the gates that close behind me.
The stars all shown like gates don't close behind you,
Anywhere you go the light will find you.
Even so, I was waiting on the judgement day that had come and gone.
Even blind men see that the color of sound is a glorious sight.
Spark up a tune for the torch of the night.
Even so I was waiting on a light to shine,
like a bolt of thunder to split my mind.
Like the fabric rent and the walls disolving.
Cities and towers and bridges falling down,
it came around my head clashing colors and chords.
I found it in the music,
it was music of course.
And the source of the music the pores of the roof
is a force to be reckoned with,
I reckon to roar.
Like a rat in a rich man's attic.
Born like a storm in sack blowing warm.
I was born in a vat, a witch made magic.
I was whored in a black barn, long and lone.
But before me now is the road untravelled.
I'm an older soul with a rolled up faggot of gold
and stalks of gold and stems of gold and songs along and listen.

When death gets old, well,
who gonna come for her?
That poor son, yeah.
When death gets old, well,
who gonna come for her?
That poor son.

When death's an old man,
bourban in hand,
sipping death's a young girl
with a parasol sitting.
Into the wind, I broke the first sappling
the first breath that spoke to what's happening,
and he cut it in half diagnally.
The last ship on the horizon line vastly past capacity.
With slaves in agonny.
The conductor of the cacophony
the subplanter of the body from the painted face of reality.
The dance between the death of all things in life,
the shutter of life from its wings
always frightening in spite of the sights we believe.
Hold to the center of the medicine,
we are still coughing red soil from a heart of common steel.
A plotted point on an energy foil.
Caned in the street remains hung from the beats and stays insatiated for weeks


When death gets old, well,
who gonna come for her?
That poor son, yeah.
When death gets old, well,
who gonna come for her?
That poor son.

When death gets old, well,
who gonna come for her?
That poor son, yeah.
When death gets old, well,
who gonna come for her?
That poor son.