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Archers Of Loaf All The Nation's Airports Chumming The Oceans South of the river's mouth Migration slopes slowly towards mainland. There, the salt air Fills the gills of the dead bait in hand. The deep is in riot, the coastline is quiet Asleep and divided in bands. While beer halls all revil, drunk and disheveled, Helplessly wading the diver is down. And they're chumming the oceans. The signal is sent, Recieved and repsonded to. The water is red, red, red, red. We're downed, downed as the hand of god Chokes the driftwood with dead weight and brine. And spawning the detailed decline Via dorsal cuts, hooks, sink and line. The anchors have setlled, the tanks are full level. The flag has been raised half-mast on the bow. And harpoons are loaded, the cage has been lowered. The mask's on, the diver is down, now. And they're chumming the oceans. The signal is sent I think he's in trouble. The water is red, red, red, red. |
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