I sit here in the sound garden, dividing the joy between the muses.
I've been counting crows again;
And I will burn every last one with the arcade fire.
This steady diet of iron and wine
gave birth to cold war kids with bright eyes and radio heads.
After a blur of ten years, eleven fingers, and
I have faith no more in these stone age queens
who sit as tall as lions in their silver chairs.
Not with gin blossoms like that sprouting up along the neutral milk hotel.
I suppose the dead are grateful for the flowers,
but there is no doubt my thirteen senses scramble for acceptance.
Stones will roll along with these talking heads.
More power to the cats who survive three dog nights
and all those indigo girls who don't fall for cheap tricks.
There is a fire inside these wolves from the sea,
but there is no air supply left for their aqualung nirvana.
These roots will always be rusted.