Willful rowboat, obedient stream,
  Seven spunky steps over the horizon.

Following the footsteps of the sworn volunteers,
Into icy depths of dry rivers,
Into flooded waters of dry wells,
Into lollipop fear,
Into unknown fords.

  Long little night, short little day,
  Seven spunky steps over the horizon.

The punished son never grew up,
The capricious oar is refusing to row,
The stubborn parachute didn't open on time,
The flittery boomerang decided to believe that,
  Well, there just isn't any going back,
  No, there isn't any going back.

No, you better listen
To the rain biting into my palms,
Listen to the mouse running over my throat,
Listen to the breach forming under my heart,
To the winter crawling into my guts,
To the lichen crawling onto my spine,
To the water springing into my eyes,
To the persistent dandelion ripping into concrete,
To the steady rusting of crystalline doors.

Listen to the rye growing into my skin,
Listen to the mouse running over my throat,
Listen to the laughter bubbling forth from my gut,
Listen to the rainbow flowing into your swollen veins,
  Sweet little rainbow, late little rainbow.
To the apple-tree giving birth to a star,
  Tiny little star, forgotten, domestic, and cute.
Listen to the movements in abandoned towns
Of uncontrollable choruses of wooden brides.

Listen to the rye growing under my heart,
Listen to the mouse running over my throat,
Listen to the night swelling into my guts,
To the grass biting into my palms,
To the milk drying on my lips,
To the worms stirring in my spleen,
To the grasshoper stirring in amber stones,
  Submerging himself into races from nowhere to noplace.

Yeah, things are going just great,
The nameless bunny is afraid
Under the eyeballs of the fences of the stuffy
Corners of your own dank insides.

The sky fell under my feet,
The news flew off into far-off lands,
Ruptured into molten circles,
The thundering plain, the starry swamp.