Ah, Lord, have you got a nail in my spine? Those wretched haunts of clouds crouch over the mountains, tearing at their hair, yowling. Oh but gently, I feel ghosts. Where did that song go? Where where did that song I was singing go? Reach on and die on, your fingers scraping under my eyelids, somebody's blood in my hair (oh baby, is it yours? I swear I think it's yours). There's white-rooted grave dirt in my nostrils and, tombstone of mine, I didn't tell you why.