Tongue rots like roses in a window,

teeth like those dead doves on the roadwork.

What am I looking at here?

Causer of the end,

a cave of a cave of a face,

dragging your carriage full of death.

No one likes a quitter at the Holy Garden Funeral. Words far and few, through the gaps in your head, moths in the middle, they sure built a beauty with you. He paints the ceiling with cardinals.

No one likes a quitter at the Holy Garden Funeral.