| What shall we tell them?
|
| A honeymoon as brief
|
| As a walk in the park
|
| What shall we tell them?
|
| When they ask?
|
| And they’ll ask…
|
| Could you not see another way out?
|
| Was the place without sun?
|
| Was it furnished in black?
|
| With the ache of the gas-oven
|
| There at your back
|
| The death angel paces
|
| In boredom and waits
|
| It shrieks from dark corners
|
| Undermining your faith
|
| What shall we tell them
|
| When they ask?
|
| And they will ask…
|
| Could you not see another way out?
|
| Where were the cape and the coastline?
|
| The wonderkid’s sunshine?
|
| Your sanity shattered
|
| And climbing the walls
|
| Wet towels at the floorline
|
| Stuffed under the doors
|
| And the powder-black wings
|
| Left you blind
|
| The last days of December
|
| Are the loneliest kind
|
| In the mess that you made
|
| There was no pause for thought
|
| Cause the lies that I told
|
| Were the lies that you bought
|
| There was no place to find you
|
| Nor you to be found
|
| In the margins of books you were reading
|
| There are stages to grieving
|
| That won’t let you down
|
| Where was the coastline?
|
| The wonderkid’s sunshine?
|
| Under northern skies
|
| Anonymous and free
|
| Your nightfisherman pushes a boat
|
| Out to sea
|
| You’ll surely meet yours
|
| Though his faith is unsound
|
| There are stages to grieving
|
| That won’t let you down |