I'll let all the fists clenched in me fall supine.
I'll let all the eddies in me cease to whirl.
I'll let my damp, dark braid daily unfurl.
I'll let every lace I plait return to twine.
Now this home is an opened oyster.
Now we know for certain of it's treasure
Now we know for certain of it's treasure
Now we know for certain of it's treasure
Now we know for certain it has passed on.
I'll put a bullhorn to the mouth of your ghost
And gently as a mobile you'll return.