When the day, when the day falls to the light, at the end of the end of my time, I fall, to the dark, take the bones off my back.
And I chant, to the black, you were my lady divine.
Cause my children, are in hiding, mortor and pestal they grind.
Those songs whistled through white teeth, do scuff the day.
With songs, for children, to sing.
Those songs whistled through white teeth, do scuff the day.
With songs, for children, to sing.
When the chairs are tucked into the fading song, and the silver of their pours has grown long, they call, to the dark, take the bones off my back.
And they chant, to the black, you were my lady divine.
And they bloat/blow(?), like a bitter wine, in their bellies.
Cause the bones, have been removed, from their hunched over backs.
And their children, are all grown now, water and pestle they grind.
Those songs whistled through white teeth, still scuff the day.
With songs, for children, to sing
Those songs whistled through white teeth, still scuff the day
Those songs, for children, to sing.
Those songs, for children, to sing.
