Brackett, WI

An easy swing had it’s time shouldered
Slow bending axe.
Now it’s a photo framed.
The swing hasn’t had it.
And here we are rebuilding roads
Right by roosting towns.
It’s just like the love
The one that’s never been enough.
So I’m counting on your fingers
Cause you’ve reattached the twitch
And if you want opinion,
I will die along the ditches.
And every summer is a hot token
To the cold, cold take of lust.
And every autumn singes
With the business of sadness.
Our friend had it wrong.
We sing «honey heaven burns».
Another curve in the counting:
His head is earning more.
So I’m counting on your fingers
Cause you’ve reattached the twitch
And if you want opinion,
I will die along the ditches.