letra de the show - david moore
my soul looked down from a vague height with death
as unremembering how i rose or why
and saw a sad land, weak with sweats of dearth
gray, cratered like the moon with hollow woe
and fitted with great pocks and scabs of plaques
across its beard, that horror of harsh wire
there moved thin caterpillars, slowly uncoiled
it seemed they pushed themselves to be as plugs
of ditches, where they writhed and shriveled, k!lled
by them had slimy paths been trailеd and scr-ped
round myriad warts that might be little hills
from gloom’s last drеgs these long-strung creatures crept
and vanished out of dawn down hidden holes
(and smell came up from those foul openings
as out of mouths, or deep wounds deepening.)
on dithering feet upgathered, more and more
brown strings towards strings of gray, with bristling spines
all migrants from green fields, intent on mire
those that were gray, of more abundant sp-wns
ramped on the rest and ate them and were eaten
i saw their bitten backs curve, loop, and straighten
i watched those agonies curl, lift, and flatten
whereat, in terror what that sight might mean
i reeled and shivered earthward like a feather
and death fell with me, like a deepening moan
and he, picking a manner of worm, which half had hid
its bruises in the earth, but crawled no further
showed me its feet, the feet of many men
and the fresh-severed head of it, my head
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