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I saw the tops of trees in an oil spill, 'front of a hospital,
absent of leaves, standing still against a pale wind.
Then they disappeared when the brakeman came and washed 'em away,
reaching down from the high rise with lion heart and lamb's fate.
Now I got my fucking arm around the brakeman's neck.
He hasn't brought me home so I ain't killed him yet.
It's fucking picturesque how we're so distressed.
We all got a fucking job in this city.

Come on drag the lake, the marionettes are caught up in their strings.
When the coughing won't palliate, a pale wind comes in as a billow of smoke.

As I'm sinking in the sand, I hail a cab through the city
and see a thinning man resting next to an ATM.
I grab my green and pay my fare back to quicksand
to barter with the land to cut me a fucking break.