Lumberyard

The axe in my hand

Cuts only at branches

Cuts not at the bark

Its toughness is far

Too much for this blade

All rusted and lame

As the ice trickles down

And covers this town

In the lumberyard thaw

This ice in my hands

In my head, it demands

Melts away when we all

Fly south for the fall

When we cover the streets

In dust from the trees

As our bodies flow out

Down rivers, past towns

Spilling out like a sound

Laying beds in the ground

Of the lumberyard

Ba-ba, ba-ba

Ba-ba, ba-ba

Ba-ba, ba-ba

Ba-ba, ba-ba

Ba-ba, ba-ba

Ba-ba, ba-ba

This axe in my hand

Cuts only at branches

Cuts not at the bark

Its toughness is far too much