The string became a snake
Picking our rodents and apples.
Then songs of the unborn
Resonated in the graveyard.
Only yesterday he came with his burial list
And the way he wanted to die
He insisted, wanted no alteration.
I run through the lemon grass, glass
And the pains of out no-thorough pass
The revelries of the wasted class.
Last night the beads broke again
With fresh codicils of the waking dead.