The name of every landlord is displayed out on the awning
And the farmers in the amber fields
were harmonized in yawning
As the memory of the ghost hung at the exit
And the city doctor called in feeling head sick

All the freedom-founding fathers
Altogether speak too soon
The sounds that mutter underneath
The glowing, Greek blue moon
As tide rose up beyond the walking trail
Soon un-hibernated every mocking gale
React to it at your leisure, modern pressure
All the street were filled with carbon
And a pack of trembling dogs
The weather comes in from the east and spills a Kremlin fog
As they filled the holes of every open tomb
Near the factories of dirty broken looms

The sky was open wide
And it was pouring Civil War
The body that you carry once comprised of simple lore
Where the iceman at the cinema wrote anagrams
But no one could blow past your little diaphragm
The stillness of the changing weather, modern pressure

That oasis sometimes lingers like a patch of blackened ice
And the cellars of the ruins have been locked
and packed in twice
Only names are what remain to label you
Where I heard the prayers of sex and table food
Off beyond the sunrise waits another pounding storm
Somewhere from the rubble sounds of nothing sounding born

And the zero ground of future battle sights
While the gods still fill our heads with satellites
Take the seeds my holy thresher, modern pressure