Load up the cannon
Shoot lead into the bowels of the big river
Don't know but it could be use that drown'd
Two scared mother-figures weep distant tears
Together gazing blind into the terror of that deep green strip of damp
No bloated flesh rises up from the mud
White wake wash the banks away
Lay bare the clinging bones of the stinking fish
Once filled out with corpulent fat and fin
Now swelling with silt and slime
And the river's shit
Jack Sprat immersed in water-wet hole
Gills awry and sand gritting away the blood red filaments
Stuck into ears and eyes
The fat black kettle of the steaming ferry churns by to the river's chorus
So we pull ourselves out of these oily weeds
Drag tendrils of creepers from the trees
And now we are free
So hoist the sails and we're on our way
Keeping up this wholesome metaphor of the deep
Look around and dredge a living as best we can amongst the plants and the dirt
Robbing and killing and slashing folk
Find it hard to focus on the rain
But glancing down like Eve into her baby's grave
Fingers like ten enormous warts
And skin like 3rd degree on our face
Shrieking again as the cannons roar like the mighty waves
We free the rising tide of sanity and sail back to the trees