November — Tom Waits

No shadow No stars No moon No care November It only believes In a pile of dead leaves And a moon That's the color of bone

No prayers for November To linger longer Stick your spoon in the wall We'll slaughter them all

November has tied me To an old dead tree Get word to April To rescue me November's cold chain

Made of wet boots and rain And shiny black ravens On chimney smoke lanes November seems odd You're my firing squad November

With my hair slicked back With carrion shellac With the blood from a pheasant And the bone from a hare

Tied to the branches Of a roebuck stag Left to wave in the timber Like a buck shot flag

Go away you rainsnout Go away, blow your brains out November