every song on the radio reminds me of you
each one seems to be the story of our lives
yet i believe nothing is like anything else

Wherever else I seek
hasn't his grip or gear.

My brother's eye was painted
clear in family portraits.

My brother's eye was painted
clear in family portraits.

So torrents of the Seventh,
Fifth and Ninth. Riverbeds of
Bach, Beethoven and Amadeus
rapids of the sky, peaks and pastures

I open a volume of fluid. 
A bright sloth orphanage glints 
from the screen within the screen, 

Mother spoke skua: 
she shrieked. Who can roll back 
the Atlantic scandal?

Remember the human body was trimmed
From something bigger and worse

Character is a failure of love,
And I want to love you this morning.

Death stirs under their feet, and the musicians wearing cocked hats in a corner, playing the shepherd’s flute and something that looks like a fiddle, pluck death in broad stringy sweeps