Guest
No shadows, no stars There’s no moon and no cars November It only believes in a pile of dead leaves And a moon that’s the color of bone No prayers for November to linger longer Stick your spoon in the wall And we’ll slaughter them all November Has tied me to an old dead tree Get word to April to rescue me November’s cold chain made of wet boots and rain And shiny black ravens on chimney smoke lanes November seems odd You’re my firing squad November With my hair slicked back with carrion shellac And the blood from a pheasant and the bone from a hare Tied to the branches of a roebuck stag Left to wave in the timber like a buck shot flag Go away, you rainsnout Go away, blow your brains out November
