| When the day, when the day falls to the light
|
| At the end, oh the end, of my time
|
| I call to the dark
|
| Take the bones off my back
|
| And I chant to the black
|
| You were my lady divine
|
| Cause my children are in hiding
|
| Mortar and pestle they grind
|
| Those songs whistled through white teeth do scuff the days
|
| With songs for children to sing
|
| Those songs whistled through white teeth, do scuff the days
|
| With songs, for children, to sing
|
| When the chairs are tucked into the fading song
|
| And the silver of their pours has grown long
|
| Oh they call to the dark
|
| Take the bones off my back
|
| And they chant to the black
|
| You were my lady divine
|
| And they bloat like a bitter wine in their bellies
|
| Cause the bones have been removed
|
| From their hunched over backs
|
| And their children are all grown now
|
| Mortar and pestle they grind
|
| Those songs whistled through white teeth still scuff the days
|
| With songs for children to sing
|
| Those songs whistled through white teeth still scuff the days
|
| Those songs for children to sing
|
| Those songs for children to sing |