flower-border flower-blow godevil give to devil will may god guide you for i can

not guide no more and long live who gave to me flower-blower flower-flow and even he

who hasn't yet singing like a shamizen wrought with wire tensed

just a stick and a worn tin can at feastfriday’s end noon sun high on high but for

others no more music for it could not be 'cause it could not be popular

music if it's not sung it's not popular it's out of tune out of tinkle out of

chink tarantine and then strummed the tripe of pain the tensed tripe of a

furious physical pain and hurting hurting like a pike on the palm of the hand a

rusty blind pike impaling the hand an open naked heart like a nerve

tense retensed a black blind pike upon the palm pulp of the hand under the sun

while for meager cruzeiros they sell those gourds where a good shape is

the fine thin line of miserly matter shape of famine half-baked clay in the spoils

of repulse till others vomit their plastic plates with embroidered borders

in empire style for a measly misery 'cause this is what's popular for the

patrons of the people but the people invent the people create and the people reflect

the people are the tonguetricksters the masters of malice whose wily ways

and vice to improvise probing the passage while oiling the sun's axle

for the lackeys lacking servitude almost pure metaphor the people il miglior fabbro

with their rhymed martelo galopado on the sieve of the impossible in the lives of the unviable

in the crucible of the incredible of their rhymed galope martelado and oil and axle of sun

but that string that string that bladestring that irksome moaning molar like

a demented string tolling its tuneless wailing widowed ring like a pale fire

famished flower-border flower-blow flower-border flower-blow flower-border flower-blo'

because i cannot guide no more see this book this consumable commodity this godevil

give to devil book that i array and disarray then put together and take apart waggage

of a wanderer in the world's swirl may god will may devil guide you because i

cannot guide cannot glide cannot ride cannot stride cannot stray cannot trade but in my

meager things my cents my rings in my ten in my fewer than in my

nothings in my pains my antennas in the radios in those things so trivial

immaterial we call trifles viewing vervaine sugars or amaryllis or

petty circumstance all of that i know is worthless is cheerless i don't

know but listen how it sings praise how it tells taste how it moves and don't ask

me to guide you unask me to guide you unguide me to ask you a promise

to trust you and let you forget me and leave you forgive me unbid me in the bitter

end i'll be right in the end i'll go back in the end i'll make right and for the end

keep me right and you'll see that i'm right and we'll see what is done who has ways

for through bent i went straight weaving one he weaved all and if i don't

guide i don't regret for the master who taught me no longer gives instruction a baggage

of worldvision in a split-second illusion going back i went straight deftly turned

the evil ways i don't guide 'cause i don't guide 'cause i can't guide and please don't ask

for remembrance but dwell in my moments disobey my command and don't trust but defy

nor confide or bestride that through yes or through no for myself i'll take no

in the if of the yes put the no in the e of the me put the no and the no will be your mot