He takes his dinner in the bath 

Love sickened and infirmed 

The orderly found him there 

Fileted on the marble stairs 

Hat still in hand 

His smoking remains 

Blown out by a kiss from the sunday scene 

Sunday soon sunday soon someday soon 



Someday someday someday 



His eyes are closed his mouth has named her rosary her lips and tongue 

She is the centrifuge that throws the spies from the sun 

The cistine chapel dated with the gattling gun 

Someday soon [x4]



Oh the meadows set on him 

Move like starlings of the clearing and tenor of a foggy tongue 

The forcefield round his frosty hips 

Whose shape recalls the (?) 

That buried him but on his lips the last rites of man 

Someday soon