Talking About The Past Is Like A

But Sometimes Everything I Write With The Threadbare Art Of My Eye Seems A Snapshot

It's The Light Of The Oncoming Train.

Pity The Planet, All Joy Gone From This Sweet Volcanic Cone

We Feel The Machine Slipping From Our Hands As If Someone Else Were Steering; If We See Light At The End Of The Tunnel, It's The Light Of The Oncoming Train.

And Blue-lung'd Combers Lumbered To The Kill.