Twas a corrupted day in ruddy September. I lay in the darkness and wished for the sun. Dusty clay fireplace made ashes from ember, And the last of the fuel was certainly gone.
Nails hit my shoulders from working that mornin', lumps in my throat had me spittin' out bolts. Deadly, that silence, the pitch atmosphere warrin'. Silt silhouettes gravely tryn'a feed me my oats. However those ghosts made it up outta perdition, which way in Peter's name I became a haunted man, I found a solution to my much earned apparitions, when intuition and terror thrust a switch in my hand.
The lamplight lit fire and those demons erupted, and the tenancies I held shifted mighty that day. For once I thought best to sleep only in darkness, Twas ruddy September and in the light I did lay.
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