The empire state will set like the sun.
The sun puffs now, but it will set.
A smile will linger like a Cheshire Cat,
But Concupiscent Cat will be done in.

The meadows, the airwaves, the god with a flute,
Mantua, Attica, saloon and the woods,
Will creep to the house and abscond with the goods,
Disappear, reappear, go blank, and reboot.

And desperadoes with their ragged fans,
Silenus in the barrens, the Cant, the Flash,
Desdichadoes of the underhand
By Juice – like Semele – will be zapped to ash.

The light in your hair will jabber, apprised.
The light of the mole will spring from the dirt.
The bee that lips your tongue will feint and flirt,
And then stagger back, all its eyes amazed.

And the bee-wolf that lies in wait by the rose
To chase the hive back from the bower,
As changeless honey turns sharp and sour,
Will cash it all in – it knows it knows.

I’m closing up shop against my will,
Out of the city and into the clear.
He lies who says “we’ll meet on a green hill,”
But lies too will twist and disappear.

The light in your hair will burst into rain,
But the grass, in the end, will protect your face.
You won’t pull a subway, you’ll pull a train.
Shakti, you’ll be a girl again.