PART I      crone: here upon this pillow   made of reed and willow   you're a fickle little twister   are you sweet on your sister?   your fallow won't leave you alone.      and granted for their pleasure    possesions laid to measure   she's a salty little pisser   with your cock in her kisser   but now she's a will of her own.      PART II      husband: damn your ankles and eyes wide   from you fingernails to your ponytails too.   king of the insects and the m-5   over charlemagne in a motorcade too.      and baby needs a new prize   baby needs a new and shiny prize.      captain: in this place called heavenly   you were born here.   this place called heavenly   you were born here.   you were born here.      husband: and now all the marchers descend from high   i will dedicate all of my awakenings to this.      and damn all the angles that opress my sight   i will bleed your heart through a samovar soon.      captain: in this place called heavenly   you were born here.   this place called heavenly   you were born here.   you were born here.      PART III      soldier: they settled dust in your hair   to watch you shake and shout it out.   with our armaments bared   we shed our bags and travel alls.      from the lee of the wall   he comes in the chang and the chariot   and all his eunuchs in thrall   can scarce lift his line and lariat.      here com loose his hounds   to blow me down.      chorus of waifs: blow me down.      soldier: on this stretch of ground   i'll lay me down.      chorus of waifs: lay me down.      soldier: to sleep.      chaplain: and now stricken with pangs   that tear at our backs like thistle down   the mirror's soft silver tain   reflects our last and birthing hour      soldier: here com loose his hounds   to blow me down.      chorus of waifs: blow me down.      soldier: on this stretch of ground   i'll lay me down.      chorus of waifs: lay me down.      soldier: to sleep.      PART IV      evening      widow: o the wind is blowing, it hurts your kin   as you climb up hillside, forest and fen.      your arms full of lullabies, orchids and wine   your memories wrapped within paper and twine.      the room that you lie in is dusty and hard   sleeping soft babies on piles of yards   of gingham, taffeta, cotton and silk   your dry hungry mouths cry for your mother's milk.      when the dawn commes to greet you, you'll rise with clothes on   and advance with the others, singing old songs   of cattle and maidens and withered old queens.   let the music carry you on.      the room that you lie in is dusty and hard   sleeping soft babies on piles of yards   of gingham, taffeta, cotton and silk   your dry hungry mouths cry for your mother's milk.      PART V      woman: darling dear what have you done?   your clothes are town, your make-up runs.      daughter: i ran through brambles, blooming thistle   i washed my face in the river when you whistled me on.      woman: darling dear, what hav eyou done?    your hands and face are smeared with blood.      daughter: the chaplain came and called me out   to beat and to butcher his mother's sow      woman: but darling dear, they found him dead   this morning on the riverbed.      but hush now darling, don't you cry.   your reward's in the sweet by-and -by.   hush now baby, don't you cry.   your reward's in the sweet by-and-by.      crone: and now we've seen your powers   softly stretch the hours   you're a fickle little twister   are you sweet on your sister?   as now you go wandering home.