To scatter one's own lyrics

Scatter me out on the prairie.

Western gales supine the gray.

Not that this matters.

It's not that it's worn

or threadbare and battered.

And the sun must rise.

And the sun must rise.

Custer sleeps with ball and scythe.

A feather on his right.

It's writ in James, repent or die.

For Enoch chains his scribes.

Not that this matters.

It's not that it's worn

or threadbare and battered.

And the sun must rise on the valley.

And the foolish night will lead.

Morning comes with death approaching.

Echoes pierce to flit thine eye.

Sweet but placed, I'm gaunt with age.

Slayers mourn but God confides.

Not that this matters.

It's not that it's worn

or threadbare and tattered.

And the sun must rise.

Custer sleeps with bell and bride

his brother by his side.

A pathway horse will fly and fly

for a stage-lit night on fire.

Morning comes with death approaching.

Echoes pierce to flit thine eye.

Not that this matters

or not that it's worn.