The wooden lookout seven stories high
The steeple at the top, it won't stop singing
singing singing singing
It's got a rigid rule number one
It's to keep the bodies living
The last crooked sign to bend to the
way trees are growing
The usual size of a growth that's been trying
for several hundred thousand seconds
Allows you to drop from the eaves
to the leaves
in only several hundred thousand seconds
You almost can see the fearless machine
milling blindly
Beneath the calamity looming
when the sun goes down
We hope the clouds stop bouncing each
other off the mountains
We hope the wooden lookout has a gutter it can use
Ear to the ground alone where the edge of the day was
The valley clicking to the tape already rolling
Makes me want to turn the violin down
This wind wheel won't stop spinning
This damn wind wheel won't stop spinning around
