The White Songbook (liner note version)

From earliest books

Comes belated ink

Of feather green toads

Paired in potent pink

And barley bears

From distinguished heirs

Make nests for us

In bavarian lairs

To each comes ends

Lone messengers send

Telegrams to aging lambs

While singular troops

Countenance droops

Over infamous hillsides

We have come to be known as the deprived

A choir sings disguised as prunes

And boys make aeroplanes in place of news

Adrenaline curves its audio reeds

Talk pummels forth by deed

Doers in d.c.

The behive groves

Of ex lives woes

Retain romance

With Amelia grant

In cotton clothes

Dolls wince in droves

With certain terms the curtains close

And at the forefront lies the hierarchy

With a manual entitled "musique contemporary"

To please the queens

One bends the knees

And hopes to befriend the archenemy

We've spoken clear but become hoarse

Through morse code and phonographs it has come worse

In a year when one could hope to salvage

Hemmingway becomes the language for savages

Low sails come but low sales bring

Closure

Years spent in hiding

Dilute our slight notions with centennial flair pouring forth

Is the meaning

A lifetime delegated to the surety of second strings?

A fortress for horses

Lays clear our courses

With lanterns

We faint to recount play and losses

We are what remain

Of a virtuous refrain

Unbeknown to us a plague brands us

Among the thwarted and the lame

A lone boy cries

From bleak hillsides

A decade made grave

By our dim age

The tools have been lost for hearing

Who will endure for the endearing

Snowy slopes loom large upon northern poles

Weariness instructs all the hearts of the bold

Heads hang low down leaf strewn roads

From here, where are we to go...