So what are the words for this empty shelf beside this open scale. These are patient things like a framing device or a clock that's ticking when it's time is moving to gone. Clarity purge and the fix are all old enough to ride the tongue of this sweet beast. Following us as it is with its glowing sheen and the many many rusty gates that're jabbled into the flanks of it's soft flesh. Thief, turncoat, or pilloried obstructionist they all plead, We've done so many things, everything even. We've seen you before. Oh the shame, Oh spare us the shame.There's paper below my watchful eye and beside this gabled porch. Paper for the flames of the Good Friar. Torn and left beside the wooden bench. The bench complains beneath his ass. The Good Friar says, Near to every dear and bidden piece of it but only once for every penny turned. Worry the lark of this gloom, It has no home. As this weather blows so the trees will continue to hang at or below the distant sky out there. While our blanket here it is green as the grass. Soon we'll watch and after a succession of brief clips and short motifs a clearer impression will winnow to the surface, presenting itself to us. You'll see, I'll see, we'll see together, says the Good Friar to his Robins.
We know, we know that we've worried the rug before your door but we've been concerned.
Round meets round so it does. It's business to business for both of us, He says to them.
For you and for us. For us right here, we do and we've had a right run at all of these things, His Birds they answer.
End to end, it's the fashion of the moment for Robins and for all. Grace to go and so they turn for shame is an empty bag and truth is it's weather.