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!