crushed bone

a bird's resting on the log,

oh there's a world out there,

but there's clouds and fog,

and he'd rather fly into the sun,

look for the lord of all in the eye of milk.

burning up his feathers,

won't turn him to an elk,

but you can't do much if you don't give up,

someonce.

 

if the lord's the center of this minute sun,

what's that make of neptune’s waves,

is the devil hiding, in the coldest place?

 

what is the lie that hides in the eye,

besides the image idealistic of a hateful god?

well they don't know,

but neither do i,

or so i claim.

 

there's more to the sky than the sun,

to rain than vapour.

more underneath the owl's log than worms.

 

there's a plentiful gold heart,

under crushed bone and dry fur,

so cough it up, up, up, up,

 

into the sun.