No, no, you cannot go,
when the engines of our dreams go down the crumbling highways of experience,
No, no, you cannot ride
in that coughing engine of sound while the reaper does his rounds singing
tide, tide, tide,
and all the histories of our buildings humming
boum, boum, boum,
and the ancient drum of lore rings in the ears of a boy who fights a war we have imagined in our minds and all he thinks of is the
tide, tide, tide,

washing on a distant shore in California.

So let us hide in the morning fury as our faces thaw.

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