I've done everything that can be done to heal this wound |
| Left it on it's own for years |
I've done everything that can be done to heal this wound |
| Left it on it's own for years |
| Couldn't touch it, didn't pick it, didn't get it wet |
| It didn't stop the bleeding |
I bandaged it, I wrapped it, stitched it, tourniqueted it |
| I held it stiff and aching in the air |
| Held it there til I went beserk |
| Didn't sleep |
| It didn't work |
| Didn't stop it weeping |
And the wound is your life |
| And your life took on a life of it's own |
| (Or so you foolishly thought) |
| And your life rolled on over me Bang-Bang like 56 train wheels |
| Every time I heard news of you |
And the wound was in every lousy song on the radio |
And the pain was like a tree-fern in the dark, damp, forgotten places |
| Darkness didn't stop her growing |
| New-born baby cells dividing.. |
| Curled up tight unrolling day by day |
| Stretching up, stretching out |
| Forming the same identical shape |
| Clones. There aint too much sadder than |
| Clones - relentlessly emerging from the hairy heart of the wound |
And the fern is beautiful in it's own way |
| Uncurling in the dark |
| Beautiful with no one there to see it |
| As the wound weeps and aches |