New York Has a Lump in Her Throat

[Verse 1]
New York has a lump in her throat
She tore up the letters I wrote
Long Island Shore is ravaged today
Stones cry out, what do they say?
Joggers run in lines of Morse code
A beetle's blood seeped into the road
I store up the fragments & grit
Unkind words, sweet lover’s spit

[Chorus]
Wail me down, baby
Wail me down
Fire escapes and dreams of Hades
Wail me down, wail me down

[Skit]
The same energy which created a symphony by Mozart is shared by The Beatles in making Sgt. Pepper
It is the same intuitive impulse of the imagination
Which in itself is perhaps the closest mankind can ever come to a sense of the divine
The interesting part in all this is attempting to reconcile those two impulses
The impulse to impersonate and the impulse to invent
It seems as though being an artist involves maintaining that equilibrium
In a way that isn't a detriment to you or your craft

[Verse 2]
The caravans of childhood are gone
But August sunlight scorches the lawn
Dharma bluebells blossom in me
Orgastic green vibrates from the trees
City in mind and city in breath
A million pixels manifest death
Champagne sipped from four paper cups
Benzaiten is soon to wake up

[Chorus]
Wail me down, baby
Wail me down
Fire escapes and dreams of Hades
Wail me down, wail me down
Wail me down, baby
Wail me down
Fire escapes and dreams of Hades
Wail me down, wail me down