There was a scent like honeycomb
From mugwort dull. And down upon the dome
Of the stone the cart-horse kicks against so oft
A butterfly alighted. From aloft
He took the heat of the sun, and from below.
There was a scent like honeycomb
From mugwort dull. And down upon the dome
Of the stone the cart-horse kicks against so oft
A butterfly alighted. From aloft
He took the heat of the sun, and from below.
“If I haven’t heard a word in ten years, assume you’re dead
Or guest of the Feds
Or cultivated a better class of friends
Not mad, tip the hat, fingers don’t touch the brim
Lid don’t touch my naps
Andy Capp, go ’head, pencil him in
Last one standin’, what he scream in the wind
At the end, at-at the end”
billy woods | “checkpoints”