|
From Here To Infinity before/after Ain't nothin' so serious a little death can't take care of it. Walking through the plague fields, as they dredged up the dead, howling, howling, The wail of the banshee, The mournful cry, weaving into the night, A chorus, A chorus singing out of the mottled mouths of the wrongly dead, The souls of children, The wailing under the tiny white stone in the graveyard, Into the night like smoke from a campfire, grown small, a pale fleck against the canvassed universe, A bob, a dot, a mote in the all of all.
|
