Flies

No friend of golden hand

Oiled with rose and smelly then

As your blood burned poppy red

Across your velvet coat

Your deep blue velvet coat

It’s there in Montana prairie grass

The suits shot Custard down

His red spot tired, his black boots shine

How beautiful you look to the flies

The happy kingdom of flies

Dear Custard there’s a Wal-Mart now

Where once the grizzlies roamed

Mountains of hair spray and cowboys shirts

And everyone has a gun

Everyone still has a gun

But high in the rafters above the lights

Red finches, they hide their nest

And when our cars drive out of sight

They sing symphonies across the night

In that forest of heating pipes

And out past the parking lot along the curb

In the wilds of weed and trash

Prayed on his love, the smallest ants

Fight battles for the glory of the queen

Such a tiny, glorious queen

But even the empress of the ants

For whom ten thousand fall

Makes not a sound beneath the blades

Of our great empire of lords

How quiet is the empire of lords