Lyrics

Chorus

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



Chorus