Tuesday, 27 January 2009

And as the worm it twists and turns

I throw myself upon the ferns

And fall upon the growing soil

Within my limbs the earth does toil

I glance back up at the trees

That twist and fell between my

Knees

I curl and hide myself from

Bees

That fly and sting upon my skin

Always grasping and getting in

The blood it flows upon the soil

The smallest touch to toil and

Broil

And as the worm it twists and turns

I throw myself upon the ferns….

1 comment:

  1. nice love the word broil here's the song/musical idea pretty sure i need to make a musical at some point

    verse (just bartender)
    He's a black clad man with a gun in his hand, and nine bullets to waste
    He don't care for the women an he don't care for the wealth, its all the chase
    Now you can run, you can hide and you can beg for your life, its all the same
    Cos he's just a black clad man with a gun in his hand, and nine bullets to waste

    Chorus (bartender+women)
    Old man you can hide all you like he'll find you in the evening time, he'll find you

    Bridge (everyone in bar+blacks and whores)
    Sick old man with nothing to lose, but nine bulllets to waste
    Yes he's a sick old man with nothing to lose but nine bullets to waste.

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