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November

by Tom Waits


No shadow
No stars
No moon
No care
November
It only believes
In a pile of dead leaves
And a moon
That´s the color of bone

No prayers for November
To linger longer
Stick your spoon in the wall
We´ll slaughter them all

November has tied me
To an old dead tree
Get word to April
To rescue me
November´s cold chain

Made of wet boots and rain
And shiny black ravens
On chimney smoke lanes
November seems odd
You´re my firing squad
November

With my hair slicked back
With carrion shellac
With the blood from a pheasant
And the bone from a hare

Tied to the branches
Of a roebuck stag
Left to wave in the timber
Like a buck shot flag

Go away you rainsnout
Go away, blow your brains out
November





 

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