The White Songbook (liner note version)

From earliest books
Comes belated ink
Of feather green toads
Paired in potent pink
And barley bears
From distinguished heirs
Make nests for us
In bavarian lairs
To each comes ends
Lone messengers send
Telegrams to aging lambs
While singular troops
Countenance droops
Over infamous hillsides
We have come to be known as the deprived

A choir sings disguised as prunes
And boys make aeroplanes in place of news
Adrenaline curves its audio reeds
Talk pummels forth by deed
Doers in d.c.
The behive groves
Of ex lives woes
Retain romance
With Amelia grant
In cotton clothes
Dolls wince in droves
With certain terms the curtains close
And at the forefront lies the hierarchy
With a manual entitled "musique contemporary"
To please the queens
One bends the knees
And hopes to befriend the archenemy
We've spoken clear but become hoarse
Through morse code and phonographs it has come worse
In a year when one could hope to salvage
Hemmingway becomes the language for savages
Low sails come but low sales bring
Closure
Years spent in hiding
Dilute our slight notions with centennial flair pouring forth
Is the meaning
A lifetime delegated to the surety of second strings?
A fortress for horses
Lays clear our courses
With lanterns
We faint to recount play and losses
We are what remain
Of a virtuous refrain
Unbeknown to us a plague brands us
Among the thwarted and the lame
A lone boy cries
From bleak hillsides
A decade made grave
By our dim age
The tools have been lost for hearing
Who will endure for the endearing
Snowy slopes loom large upon northern poles
Weariness instructs all the hearts of the bold
Heads hang low down leaf strewn roads
From here, where are we to go...