Hips

And when the lights send shadows over lines that mark the half and domes - The moths that move in circles, above stands with names of war heros.
The back and forth puts me to sleep, a brutal baby's cradled wish, But if the whole thing starts to slip, all of Welland's in my hips.

The smell of grass and shit and tea through crowds of mainly men, take the place of paint fumes, washed in rain that never seems to fucking end. And I'm just a supporter, bound by love to shoulder loss and gain, The push, and push of backlines gussied up with piss and novocaine

That freezes in the summer heat,
That bleeds with red and gold and green
An interstate bystander, watches from between the gates,
And if the lights go out in extra time
Well here's what's gonna happen
We're gonna teach the kids a lesson in high style.
We're gonna slip across the patterns on the tiles.

And as the lights send shadows over men who never read a poem the ball that moves in circles, over manicured, unnatural green pigment pouring from the leaves, as stations pour out from the dial, to rip apart a summer scene and leave home for a country mile. Now we're the dreams that no one ever thought to call or idly wish -- So when the whole thing starts to slip, then all of Welland's in my hips.