UNDER THE PEAR TREE (DIG HERE)

Welcome to the house. Gold teeth. Black roots.
Leave your conscience with the coats. It clashes with the suits.

Abel put an older war where the neighbours came to stare;
kept his own dirt in the cellar, let the dead man clear the air.
Now the house has learned to smile—gold above, decay beneath.
Every chandelier is bait; every welcome hides a lease.

Old stains, starched and pressed. Wear the evidence to dinner.
There’s a cellar in the ledger and a sermon in the shredder.
Ask the darkness for a sum; let the figures bite their tongues.
Keep weighing all the voices till the scales agree with you.

Every voice becomes a grain. The mill belongs to one.
You sell us back our silence as the bread we have to chew.
You don’t need to hide the shovel. We prefer the golden view.
We can smell the cellar breathing. Still we put the fruit on trial.

Dig here, dig here—pear tree, TV.
Sell the fucking shadow. Call the shadow liberty.
Gold mouth, locked floor. Everybody wants more.
We know about the cellar. Still come through the door.

Black oil in the christening font. Wash the blood and bless the spoil.
The peace dove’s got a price tag and a barrel for a bill.
Offer ropes to drowning mouths, then send a contract down instead.
Let the water teach them gratitude before you lend a hand.

The hand that struck the match gets paid. The ashes get a lecture.
The landlord sells the fire escape and calls the invoice shelter.
An oath at dawn. A shrug at noon. The tongue has changed its flag.
The promise sheds its skin and leaves the weakest holding scraps.

Your window wears a garland. Theirs gets swept up off the street.
A family counts the stairs; you count who’s clapping from the seats.
Your compass doesn’t point. It appraises what the spotlight sees.
North is where the needle kneels to keep the crowd appeased.

Dig here, dig here—pear tree, TV.
Sell the fucking shadow. Call the shadow liberty.
Gold mouth, locked floor. Everybody wants more.
We know about the cellar. Still come through the door.

Give the storm a scented pardon. Make the broken window kneel.
Put a ribbon on the wreck. Let the signature decide what’s real.
You didn’t hypnotise the room. We choreographed the trance.
We learned to clap with dirty hands and called it circumstance.

Don’t blame the fucking fruit. We grafted rot into the tree.
We bought the lock, we praised the key, we called the mortgage liberty.
The cover-up is over. Every guest can name the smell.
Now the secret comes with tickets. We’ve got memberships to sell.

Dig here, dig here—pear tree, TV.
Sell the fucking shadow. Call the shadow liberty.
Gold mouth, locked floor. Everybody wants more.
We know about the cellar. Still come through the door.

Abel died inside the cellar.
The next host offered us the tour.
We didn’t miss the warning.
We put it on the brochure.

2838/7500

Welcome to the house. Gold teeth. Black roots. Leave your conscience with the coats. It clashes with the suits. Abel put an older war where the neighbours came to stare; kept his own dirt in the cellar, let the dead man clear the air. Now the house has learned to smile—gold above, decay beneath. Every chandelier is bait; every welcome hides a lease. Old stains, starched and pressed. Wear the evidence to dinner. There’s a cellar in the ledger and a sermon in the shredder. Ask the darkness for a sum; let the figures bite their tongues. Keep weighing all the voices till the scales agree with you. Every voice becomes a grain. The mill belongs to one. You sell us back our silence as the bread we have to chew. You don’t need to hide the shovel. We prefer the golden view. We can smell the cellar breathing. Still we put the fruit on trial. Dig here, dig here—pear tree, TV. Sell the fucking shadow. Call the shadow liberty. Gold mouth, locked floor. Everybody wants more. We know about the cellar. Still come through the door. Black oil in the christening font. Wash the blood and bless the spoil. The peace dove’s got a price tag and a barrel for a bill. Offer ropes to drowning mouths, then send a contract down instead. Let the water teach them gratitude before you lend a hand. The hand that struck the match gets paid. The ashes get a lecture. The landlord sells the fire escape and calls the invoice shelter. An oath at dawn. A shrug at noon. The tongue has changed its flag. The promise sheds its skin and leaves the weakest holding scraps. Your window wears a garland. Theirs gets swept up off the street. A family counts the stairs; you count who’s clapping from the seats. Your compass doesn’t point. It appraises what the spotlight sees. North is where the needle kneels to keep the crowd appeased. Dig here, dig here—pear tree, TV. Sell the fucking shadow. Call the shadow liberty. Gold mouth, locked floor. Everybody wants more. We know about the cellar. Still come through the door. Give the storm a scented pardon. Make the broken window kneel. Put a ribbon on the wreck. Let the signature decide what’s real. You didn’t hypnotise the room. We choreographed the trance. We learned to clap with dirty hands and called it circumstance. Don’t blame the fucking fruit. We grafted rot into the tree. We bought the lock, we praised the key, we called the mortgage liberty. The cover-up is over. Every guest can name the smell. Now the secret comes with tickets. We’ve got memberships to sell. Dig here, dig here—pear tree, TV. Sell the fucking shadow. Call the shadow liberty. Gold mouth, locked floor. Everybody wants more. We know about the cellar. Still come through the door. Abel died inside the cellar. The next host offered us the tour. We didn’t miss the warning. We put it on the brochure.

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