You wrote these words on a summer day
Fountain pen floating with partial dismay
It's a strange business, looking back
Seeing just how far you fell

Deacons of war and econo-maze
Beating life out of the inanimate
(So many moonrises lying in wait)
As you turn your collar inside out
Counting the number of waves
Cresting and breaking
Bakers still baking
And carpenters making their beds

"Able was I, ere I saw Elba"
Able was I?

And they buried me in the ground

You're never too small to leave a mark
Oh yea, oh yea, oh yea,
Oh.