Fever

In a open field at dusk
To footfalls I awoke.
Marching ants acroos my temples, ooh.
Their feet had no intention,
They followed some magnetic draw.
Prisoners of their distenation.

From the slats of the factory come
Where once they did make rails.
Old debts, particular songs
He didn't know I was listening.

So he crawled out nice and long
To the spiders, and the lumber,
And the dust of his conquest,
And his hunger, and his lust.

I heared his fevered joys,
I heard him tap his cane as if
He had his own view.
On stage at the F and M.

I caught his words in my open mouth.
I gaged and choked and spit them out.
I heard him turn his heated ear (?),
My tiny heart beat in his ear
I was already running...

Oh I heard him coming.
Shrapnal spitting from his wheels.
His sobbing arms rake for my heels.
I know the knoll and hid my face.
And I said these magic words

"My dove home, your breast is warm,
My dove is home."

I said these magic words,
"Fell down, now, the ant hill for days."

My dove is home, your breast is warm, my dove is home.
My dove is home, your breast is warm, my dove is home.