THE SKY IS A CORPSE

The sky is a corpse. The moon is made of dead man’s bones.
The sky is a corpse. The moon is made of dead man’s bones.
Some of them are my Daddy’s.
Some of them are my own.

The rooster is sick of crowing night and day.
The rooster is sick of crowing night and day.
So many women left
to betray.

I loved a woman like a river flooded and red.
I loved a woman like a river always jumping bed to bed.
If I’d stayed with that woman, might not have lived
till I was dead.

Her eyes were like thorns, her fingers like cigarettes.
Her eyes were thorns, her fingers were cigarettes.
Her hair was a dung heap held up with berets.

A poor man hardens like crust on the street.
A poor man hardens like crust in the street.
But even piss in the gutters finally does reach the sea.

There is blood on the pavement, spit on the window.
There is blood on the pavement, spit on the window.
Cold wind like a butcher knife that finds every hollow.

Your hands ask for mercy, ask for mercy from the sky.
You hands ask for mercy ask for mercy from the sky.
You hear a voice in the alley shout, “Why the hell should I?”

Have you seen the drunken priest stumble through his mass?
Have you seen the drunken priest stumble through his mass?
He’s been looking for Jesus in the bottom of a glass.

I went down to the river, it was flowing full of blood.
I went down to the river, it was flowing full of blood.
Nobody left alive after the fiery flood.

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