To-ta In The Moya

Waiting time will fly, aching shoulders cry, sizing up the sky,

knowing when to die, wake up judgment is gone and lighting is

bad.

Southward winds have blown, fertile soil you've grown, asking

answered not, granting all you've got, output lone frontier

groaned dead, boxed and produced.

Talking down to God, old men screaming loud, sinners, eat your

words, gather up in herds, old face streaking down image, and

the new way.

Waiting time will fly, aching shoulders cry, sizing up the sky,

knowing when to die,wake up judgment is gone and lighting is

bad.

Songs I sing of this that and you won't it break through,

climaxed on the wind joined the din, we can't hear you.

Forward wards will reach as they teach, is it all new, silence

steals the waves as they break, don't they speak truth.

Now it's taking too long, write words for this song, not getting

along.

Watchful sentry smile at the grile burning lightless, hairless

people run watch the sun solar nonsense.

Strong this part must be strong, not getting along, three tolls

on the gong.

Laughing through the night, wasted fight, dried up car wash.

Linger let lie low, let me go, tuberous green squash.

Fall from ninety miles, into smiles, throw up good gosh.