The Weekly Crow
Robert Pollard
The weekly crow
Is under red
(Are your sisters frocked to cover, tell your mother not to bother)
From critical grasp
Where else do we go?
(Throbbing filthy rumors, tearing, wearing, so uncaring)
Tell them
Sell them
Try them
The weekly crow
Collects the voice
(There I said it, don't regret it, greatly needed and repeated)
The burial box
And wooden throat
(Parapets to save the sisters praying for the jacket boys)
Tell them
Sell them
Try them
So they'll love
Turn them onto
Flashing lights
Shadows and changing
Of the grieving supper, keep them like dead ringers for the trees
Fifty paces in your places
While it crows
While it crows to you
In your life
Dead ringers for your trees
Slave agents for your knees