O OUR OLD MOUTAIN HOME

We returned to the faithful forest
To find it volcano-blasted.
Belly up and sallow as a dead
Grandfather on a slab. In such ash land
A Goldfish in a glass doesn't
Serve for a heart.
O our old mountain home
Unto thee we will come
Driven down on the bones
Drowning sound of the drums
The Gremlin comes from the North. Equipped
With his juggler bits and hidden daggers,
Painted Eyes and mailcious grinning,
Pillager of the pillaged,
Jigging and twirling, giggling burner
In the abandoned village.
[font=Times New Roman]o our old mountian home
Unto thee we will come
Driven down on the bones
Drowning sound of the drums
In the deepest down, the first valley,
The cleft where we first took stage,
We make our last proud bow
Before an ampitheatre full of no one.
Tired of applause, they left for space
When our dramas lost their
Laws of gravity.
O our old mountian home
Unto thee we will come
Driven down on the bones
Drowning sound of the drums
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