I can hear them ranting.
Like a choir of angels, those cunts.
Not singing nor dancing here;
All eyes down for the casting.
Spell trough scraped dry.
Practising our sincerest sorrows;
All full faced to the grind of stone.
The drag of that inert through toil of chained wrought sinew.
Ragged faces turned up to the rain.
Staring down; drawing down the rain.
Staring down; drawing down the rain.
Drawing down the rain.
Drawing down.
All our ears are open & all our eyes are smiling
Gracelessly receiving empty threats of heaven.
As grist to and from these dark Satanic mills.
A barren wasteland dreamt through streets of prescription mist.
There is no attenuating this.
No attenuating this.
Holes in the heart of this city.
Holes.
Drawing down the rain.
Heaven calling; calling through sewer-gratings.