| It’s glorious today so you know it will pass away
 | 
| The doves and snapping turtles bite at me
 | 
| Catatonic ash, don’t bump against them tender wounds
 | 
| This petunia land smells of timothy
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| I have read the maps of the Patron Saint of Haggard
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| Arm the minds of midwives who deliver thee
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| My hands are not enough; | 
| I will swing a hammer
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| Amen Corner’s where they’ll gather and meet
 | 
| On Amen Corner is where they gather
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| All them midwives who delivered me
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| Their looks are unwashed, ashamed, and haggard
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| Seeing my hand empty of offerings
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| They took my rolled map, ripped it to tatters
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| Turned their backs, and they commenced to sing
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| I stroke my dark dove, I pat my turtle
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| But their response is as cold as charity
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| Snapping turtles hide, Scrape their teeth against their hide
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| Doves stumble 'round turned dark from timothy
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| The midwives turn to saints swinging what’s delivered
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| On Amen Corner the haggard hammer sings
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| My snapping turtle it still be snapping
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| My dark dove can only bark at me
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| I pull his dark down, rip it to tatters
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| Glue the feathers to my turtle’s covering
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| I will swing it, my soft-hard hammer
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| To my midwives this is my offering
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| On Amen Corner, I’ll be delivered
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| My soft-hard hammer will sing as it swings |