In the yellow grass cut last July
lay a hopeless case of cut and dry
staring up at ghosts of battle crys
underneath a sun and suburban sky.
There were years to go before she could make it
sweet scents in her nose as she would take it
and her visions danced beneath her eyes
as she stared up at the suburban sky
For an inbetween, she sure was faithful
called sacred the being behind the navel
but ones who stood taller said they were lies
with a glance of reverence to the suburban sky
Fall on me, she would say in her sleep
what's behind the blue?
Majesty? Well I only see April
with a couple of suns and moons.
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