Lyrics

Let her dress take the wind, curl her lips and her pages, the dogwoods let go their leaves, never gonna go back never gonna be free. Below the rows of words, she digs her toes into the dirt, and each partition of earthworm, sees the sadness in her work.

Call it a burrow, a way home.

The poet Keats about to die, says I swear I've more to do. Unmade poems spit and wind, never gonna get out never gonna have time. The margins held him from the scream, held his heart and rhymes between, and take her now, the digger's words are all he is and teem for her.

Call it a burrow, a way home.

I was more when I left here more when I left here. Never came back home. I've been digging holes. I keep digging holes.

Call it a burrow, a way home.