Flower.lamp.light

Through the tarnish black
Son of a lady's man

I won't take kindly to you
Taking care of trees
With broken bark ,and broken parts
And broken stones, and missing bones from me

We sit, we sit, we stand
On the table, on the chair
On the ground, on our rotting bodies
Which one of us will, get the
Casino in the church
The building, the baseball field

So let this be the last time
That we stick our hands near sharp things
Or sharp things near our hands
Or near our fingers, or near our wrists
Or near our feet, or near our toes
Or near our arms, or near our selves