That shit was cold, like decompression of the cabin. I was at work when my departed came to beseech me. She said ‘all of us we were lovers in the true sense, and now I pour, pour myself into the others’. Probably drunk or stoned, just six years out of home. Courting vive and plunder, like we’ve a million years. Yesterday before the floor, before the factory. I kissed my wife kissed the grave and said “see you shortly’. All of us we stood on hilltops drenched in sorrow, just to be held by each other in the moment. The mill goes grinding on till all are dust and bone Chalk St on to Allworth, chalk one up to velvet tombs. Porcelain on leopard print was not my thing, but you dear Roslyn, emissary sent ahead in crushed velvet, can’t come home again. All who’ve ever thought of you is all that’s left, can’t come home again. Seems here can feel bitter and alone. Reach down can you grasp the solid ground? Cats eyes, reflections of the night. Gone now ‘if we’d only’ be our tome. Repeat Chorus. All we can leave is flowers, but we can never roll back the stone. We own the early hours, but we can never come stumbling home.
supported by 4 fans who also own “Crushed Velvet Tombs”
Some old fogeys don't like the 'screaming' music. I might be an old fogey and I love the screaming music. High Tension can scream for me all they want. Richard Weems