Inside this serious house the creaks and groans are leftover laughter.
"Applaud this man! For Heaven's sake, his robot eyes are made out of tin"
If I had a dime for every...
We sleep in ditches and cover ourselves with dirt from a hero's grave.
It doesn't make us feel heroic, only the leftover bullets can do that.
Only that which is fed to us, gloriously gorging on the circuit.
I'd be a rich man...
War hymns singing through the flesh and the bone of the throbbing drums.
Consistent with the rhythm of the tin men's ghostly full moon rain dance.
The garden lush and haunted after days of the tin man's rainy ghost dance.
Yet I am empty...
This glacial tundra speaks to the god's blood that guides the ax I swing.
The procession of all history splattered upon the starkness of the snow.
Blood eagles take wing and head for the sea, towards the pounding drums.
In this serious house.
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