The streets are like the ocean, that the water fills their brims And your head is just the same thing if it fills a hat with tears With the reasons we get and the gifts we accept, And the promise we request the promise isn't half Of something to wrestle with Golden gardens and pussing lips Rose hips and bull whips And there ain't no one to talk to, and you can't talk at all As you sleeping as a baby, as you see you lurking somebody On the cliff or on the edge or on the way into the hedge It's a murky time to rest and times crooked to attest The supple cup of blood or an undone vein of mud Well I'll be one to take your promise to the beach or by the way Of the dreams that pass before us, or the murderous journey towards Some ideal that's innovation for sleeping on a stone Or being in your death bed, or seeing that your blood rests On the bottom of the canyon in the morning