Yes, I have seen.
With my six-and-a-half-and-one-and-two, I have
been helped.
Now in my walking in the eighties, well, not
often, I am struck numb.
I hope.
Father, God, I'm heeded away.
That the custom of this church, time, is called time.
Nibble away on my life, nibble away, moment by moment.
There is no debris.
Time will eventually track me down.
Oh, when the young first days, raced by, like
passengers passing on a roaring train, now obsolete.
I did not know that there had been a return. I
got away.
Twenty-six-and-a-half-and-one-and-two, I was
going to say, pressed against the edge of the road.
You get drunk, holding years of company away,
relaxing on the rail, down the deck, getting drunk.
One two, one two four. Heey-bar, we, never gone.
Mats Oney.
Now we are past that great, past that sweet.
why, when my business was not doing better-why,
why, re-Really, why, why is
it now, in the late afternoon, when planes are
nearly five long redder, the days are
factored away.
So one vision says, oh, sometimes without warning,
that one time, of all time, time is not
one of the screams of pain and screams of hate,
nor did time heavy a name with fruit.
Once at a time before, when she lay headless,
her room muggy with the odor of cities,
she commanded courage from her soul's most
inner chains and decreed death into an exile of
unborn dead.
Like the victim of a powerful coup, death fled.
And she roamed.
Recovering into the time of death, the time did
not want her. She heard herself towards life.
And by living, she roamed like there were never
a thought.
And she paved with numbers on that path, walked
down the road of death. She lived. The time did
not want her.
When death finally came, it flashed and struck
inside her.
Only a boat of endless boats grinded her and
cut her brain in half.
What's beautiful is not one against the other,
trampled with aged legs, turned to dust.
As she fell, reaching, reaching, reaching to
the ground. A second death approached her.
As Mary came while I was gone, she sat inside
herself, to herself, with no one near herself,
for herself to heal herself.
Is that anything like a thought?
Acceptably, she smiled, for she now knew that
the once-exiled desperate had returned to end
her rule.
Finally, the resistance spread and spread
across five decades. But she succumbed,
continuing every time.
The time did not want her.
I thought, too, you know, of those who cannot know.
Those who can't understand and follow people to
know that they are people.
Those who like to think of every moment count.
How much you like to think of, when you're not
a man.
When, from the waxed tongue and the tongue of
my ears, I run into its face.
That is where I am, where my blood runs now.
I shall run from the windy music of joy and
youth, in sunlit summer, toward an unpleasant day,
as cruel as a ruler on my own lonesome, toward
the bowels of tyranny, for empty revelry and
retold stories,
adds to the music of politics and change. Run,
yes, yet I stand still.
In the Mind that I'm living up in my sudden ill
will to go to my stack.
Dare not tell me about it. No Danger, do not
tell me to beg but, in the good of all for
My faith is wet with strife and in my nerves naked.
Long ago I still epicised the moon as luminous.
Now the Fed horn of sorrow rubs me through and
the loathing blood falls in red sheets
and my window will see some doubt.
I must leave.
A slave of my winnings, a hypocrisy riddled
with pain and total war against,
a war of bad girls nurtured and turned into overpopulation,
or a man who's with gloom.
It's faster to hope than hope.
Through the blind glass of squirming atmosphere,
mean shadows take me and mutate bones,
betray and portray that which I would not become.
Oh, how I want to vote for human good.
To love, to care, to know you, to stupefy, but
my time is ran out.
Oh, how I want to vote for human good.
To love, to care,
to know you, to stupefy, but my time is ran out.
Yes, I'm fortunate because I believe in love.
And I think if we all come to love,
if we cannot come to love and come to find a
state of comfort one to the other,
then with our atomic, bacteriological and
chemical warfare,
our rebel armed weapons, we should surely
destroy one another.
And when the burdens have dropped,
all the governments, socialists, communists,
populists, fascists,
and otherwise shall fall.
We're making our way through lands and layers
of polluted hexes.
But there is no time to talk and whine.
We have been, our sorrow will make,
we'll make Écouté.
I am on the battlefield,
on my own.
I am on the battlefield, oh my Lord.
And I promised him that I would serve him till
I die.
I am on the battlefield, oh my Lord.
And I promised him that I would serve him till
I die.
I am on the battlefield, oh my Lord.
And I promised him that I would serve him till
I die.
I am on the battlefield, oh my Lord.
And I promised him that I would serve him till
I die.
I am on the battlefield, oh my Lord.
First of all, I know if I am really willing to
go, I will be able to do it quietly.
I am on the battlefield, oh my Lord.