The Staghead rides its drunken horse
It burnishes my sight
It says the way we have to go
It sets us on our flight
April is the cruelest month,
Breeding lilacs out of the dead land
Mixing memory and desire
Stirring dull roots with spring rain
Empty head, now the blood has left your neck
Shower man, heavy droplets rush our frame
Dusty mare, trotting sideways, half aware
Will you drop, will you stop this staghead's stare?
My hardness is a backhoe
That has no space to dry
It wets its lips and rips the hold
It tosses up our ground
My rudder is a broken straw
I have no bed to land on
I don't know where the river ends
I've forgotten how to stand
credits
from Rudder Songs,
released September 1, 2013
Second stanza is from T.S. Eliot's Wasteland.
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