Under a loop of stars in the vulgar cold The dead airport lay By the pebbles of the highway
Through the snail clouds You soared to your lover I hurried away my darling With a howl in my throat. Hiding inside the weeds In the orange grove, The black rooster crowed Through the hollow of the midnight. With my shot blood, With stains on my fingers, I run with the damned, my darling: They have taught me to laugh.
Writer(s): LARRY BECKETT, BUCKLEY TIM