Gold Fronts

The sun bent down and spoke
With the last lips
They spoke of hell and things
They knew they'd never miss

Bridge shelter and the cold creek bed
That breaks backs and leads eyes down
Faces drag against the dirt
And the ears living in that muddy sound
Where the white whales roll just once a year
And the arm feeds the hatchet with an African appetite
Matched machetes sparkle shine
And shape that small-scale guillotine

I've been getting pretty sleepy in these boxes
With the blackened mule faces outside my door
Shouting, shouting
Shouting, shouting

The club met the seal and the seal met the dog
That carried the man to the end of the trail
Where they walked down the streets
Pavement black beneath their feet
I have been having a little trouble with these black glass lungs
And dealing with the man with the gold tooth grin

I've been getting pretty sleepy in these boxes
With the blackened mule faces outside my door
Shouting, shouting
Shouting, shouting

I've been getting pretty sleepy in these boxes
With the blackened mule faces outside my door
Shouting, shouting
Shouting, shouting