In the face of this in the wall of this
in the mountain in the granite
there should be no pleasure.
The laughter the idle the melt must wait.
Mute the dazzle be blind to the glow.
This is not the time for languid savor.
The trudge is now the scale
the sweat the try and try
the blood and salt and scream of try.
Wings might form there might be flight
inside that future there should be plenty
an insane bounty too much rich to calculate.
Oh happy day around invisible corner
oh golden gloat oh liquid hum oh yummy drown.
Today is dry and everything is broiling
and the sky scowls so serious
God must have a few chores in mind.
Okay children put on those boots.
Thick gloves can only help
way down yonder in the paw paw patch
where all of it waits and does not come.
The song is buried and won’t be coaxed.
The carnival will not
assemble itself.