Poets be buried in tender
marching feet
Buried as seeds and watered in the street
Chained to the fates
of strangers facing all defeat
Poets be buried in tender marching feet
I had a daughter and I taught her all
I knew Fighting the gutter in love,
the work you
do I fought a war of hatred
hiding in the blue
I had a daughter and I taught her all I knew
I asked my father if this is all there is
A home that won't claim you,
a country that resents
You are your own saint,
a sinner to
life to live I
asked my father if this is all there is
They built my city on funerary ground
Raised a parade and marched it through the town
What is the mind but the sickness of time It goes round and round
They built my city on funerary ground
These nights alone can grate on a wintry soul
Sunless migrations that settle every war
But I am a saint,
a sinner to hold
a cannonball
These nights alone
can grate on a wintry soul
Poets be buried in tender
marching feet Buried as seeds and watered in the street
Chained to the fates of strangers
facing all defeat
Poets be buried in tender
marching feet
Poets be buried in tender
marching feet