The Writer

Comfort is what we need, my baby
 Listen and I'll show you how.
 The side walk's the carpet
 And the Bushes are the wall
 Through the sky last night
 he covers his young
 The cold blocks the cold wind whistling through
 Where the Sidewalk's the carpet
 And the busshes are the walls
 The moons his lamp
 And the world's his door
 His eyes bleed salt crystal ice
 And his hair, deeply swooshing sliced paper cuts
 Where the sidewalk's the carpet
 And the bushes are the walls
 The moon's his lamp
 And the world's his door
 His young sleeping firmly inbetween
 kneecaps and pockets
 Dreams of days resembling life
 Where the sidewalk's the carpet
 and the bushes are the walls
 The moon's his lamp
 And the world's his door
 Kneecaps and pockets, dreams of days resembling life
 "In the morning to the sound of worldfull news, slapping portraits he arises with his feet to attack. Like comaraco worms, needles with teeth, he takes his young into his hand, and folds into a little square and slips it in his sock. He puts it in his sock."
 It fits into his sock?
 "Oh yeah."
 He then walks away
 With one foot
 Tapping the pavement
 And the other
 kicking up mulch