Poets Of Dirt — Dew-scented

The gone staying by me Feeling disease, crying sun

Soil adorning me, preparing to grow Fever, disgust, dear sigh

Bewatching the truth, morals to break Catch soon the breeze, immortals

And if my tears were only joyful I would better rest in silence Instead of writing down my claims To pleasure such a lonely road A sombre tangle to disclose

The damned poets of dirt

Lake fulfilled with sand, prayers of lies Wishing disease, unholy blue Is covering meand our sins Forever gone, trapped in life