Poets Be Buried

Poets be buried in tender marching feet Buried as seeds and watered in the street Chained to the fates of strangers facing all defeat Poets be buried in tender marching feet I had a daughter and I taught her all I knew Fight in the gutter and love the work you do How for to warn her of hatred hiding in the blue I had a daughter and I taught her all I knew I asked my father if this is all there is A home that won't claim you, a country that rescinds You are your own saint, a center to hold, a life to live I asked my father if this is all there is They built my city on funerary ground Raised a parade and marched it through the town What is the mind but the sickness of time, it goes 'round and 'round They built my city on funerary ground These nights alone can grate on a wintry soul Sunless migrations that settle every wall But I am my own saint, a center to hold, a cannonball These nights alone can grate on a wintry soul Poets be buried in tender marching feet Buried as seeds and watered in the street Chained to the fates of strangers facing all defeat Poets be buried in tender marching feet