| She’s hidden her babies away
|
| Their soft, gummy smiles
|
| Won’t be gilding the menu
|
| The deer fly, the sand fly
|
| The tsetse can’t find them
|
| The goon from the Stasi
|
| Is left far behind them
|
| Their delicate derma
|
| Won’t witness a ray
|
| She’s hidden her babies away
|
| She’s hidden her babies away
|
| No 'Raindrops on roses.'
|
| 'Whiskers on kittens.'
|
| They refuse to be blinded
|
| By Rubens or Poussin
|
| They’ll hardly be boarding
|
| The 12:10 to Tucson
|
| Is she shaking them hard
|
| In dry run cabaret?
|
| She’s hidden her babies away
|
| Ho, ho, watenay
|
| Ho, ho, watenay
|
| Ho, ho, watenay
|
| I’m closing in, I’m closing in
|
| She’s hidden her babies away
|
| And why bring them out
|
| With no shelter on offer?
|
| The nurseries and creches
|
| Are heavily with lush lice
|
| Bubonic, blue blankets
|
| Run ragged with church mice
|
| The Havana has died
|
| In the clam-shell ashtray
|
| She’s hidden her babies away
|
| She’s hidden her babies away
|
| From posed, high pelvic bridges
|
| Pearly bone mountain ridges
|
| No hiccupy silence
|
| To finger their traces
|
| No colicky moon
|
| Shines bright pain on their faces
|
| She has slipped through the dark
|
| Like a mother moray
|
| She’s hidden her babies away
|
| Ho, ho, watenay
|
| Ho, ho, watenay
|
| Ho, ho, watenay
|
| I’m closing in, I’m closing in
|
| I’ve come searching from far and away
|
| A reaching, long armed vet ape
|
| Feeling hard for a breech birth
|
| I gaze up at the night
|
| At the asterisk’s blazing
|
| Til they straighten and like
|
| Tiny spines, fall to earth
|
| I bite down on this
|
| As I dance and I pray
|
| She’s hidden her babies away |