Do you know the Moon is made of Gold?
And can you see,
Infinity in a bowl…
And that this Earth exists inside a silver labyrinth?
That poverty flows a smell that’s all its’s own,
Damp shoes, dust, old wax, a ghost in town?
That here is not heaven, nor is it hell?
But some-when in between,
Our true history lies buried, along with things undone
In unhallowed ground, beside a cooked bell
