| New York has a lump in her throat
 | 
| She tore up the letters I wrote
 | 
| Long Island Shore is ravaged today
 | 
| Stones cry out, what do they say?
 | 
| Joggers run in lines of Morse code
 | 
| A beetle’s blood seeped into the road
 | 
| I store up the fragments & grit
 | 
| Unkind words, sweet lover’s spit
 | 
| Wail me down, baby
 | 
| Wail me down
 | 
| Fire escapes and dreams of Hades
 | 
| Wail me down, wail me down
 | 
| The same energy which created a symphony by Mozart is shared by The Beatles in
 | 
| making Sgt. | 
| Pepper
 | 
| It is the same intuitive impulse of the imagination
 | 
| Which in itself is perhaps the closest mankind can ever come to a sense of the
 | 
| divine
 | 
| The interesting part in all this is attempting to reconcile those two impulses
 | 
| The impulse to impersonate and the impulse to invent
 | 
| It seems as though being an artist involves maintaining that equilibrium
 | 
| In a way that isn’t a detriment to you or your craft
 | 
| The caravans of childhood are gone
 | 
| But August sunlight scorches the lawn
 | 
| Dharma bluebells blossom in me
 | 
| Orgastic green vibrates from the trees
 | 
| City in mind and city in breath
 | 
| A million pixels manifest death
 | 
| Champagne sipped from four paper cups
 | 
| Benzaiten is soon to wake up
 | 
| Wail me down, baby
 | 
| Wail me down
 | 
| Fire escapes and dreams of Hades
 | 
| Wail me down, wail me down
 | 
| Wail me down, baby
 | 
| Wail me down
 | 
| Fire escapes and dreams of Hades
 | 
| Wail me down, wail me down |