Mount Marcy

Mount Marcy is growing sparse
 She is the farce that I would like to tell
 From the bottom of your well
 Feel the bushes, brambles rambling
 Ample sapling, suckling all the air
 And the North from Marcy's hair
 When my death-day comes
 When my death-day numbs me
 I shall become one
 I shall become nothing
 And something!
 Something is the heaven-king for me!
 Your crucifixion-three-large-hills are
 Shadow-making over stilts we built
 On the mountain's silt
 Marcy, you're my fav'rite love!
 Seventeen and freckled like a soul
 To forget you would be so
 Hard on me
 Hard on me
 Hard on me to cut you from my dream-range
 But we shall become one
 We shall become nothing
 And something!
 That something is the heaven-king for me!
 Birds are chirping, you're usurping
 Things that I would never want to tell
 From the top of your landfill
 Workers smoking, all evoking
 Every county, full of filth and love
 To which you're bound above
 When my death-day comes
 For certain, I'll be sorry
 For all that I have done indoors
 When outside sons were shining
 Blinding! Binding!
 Reminding me the heaven-king is one!