Well, the May Day anvils keep on hammerin’ out ghosts from a bucket of recycled thunder, And those fibre-optic drones been stitchin’ up the horizon like a seam you can’t quite see. A ceasefire is just a hollow ol’ cello moanin’ in the hands of a long, dry drought, And the border is a cold damn mirror, reflecting every thing we forgot to carry. Yeah, the worker’s shadow’s just a suitcase full of unearned Tuesdays, And I’m singin’ the blues while the night rolls on like a freight train through the rain.
