This bog wind's damp to bone, and turf and stone
ain't much to keep it out, and here you come
corruption old as Cain, at the iron stove
and wearing faces of good men I've known.
You're not my uncle Neil, or brother Joe.
You're not my uncle Jack, or John, or Hugh
and hell if I know why you're playing house
in my dream, but rest, demon, abide with me
I recognize you and am not afraid
by day or dream our pain remains the same
and there's incense always burning on this
mountain of all my skulls; Morpheus, we've

nothing to call upon or tell, still, we blend
the black oil with the water from the well.