November - Tom Waits

No shadow

No stars

No moon

No cars

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