I even hear the mountains br the way they laugh br up and down their blue sides br and down in the water br the fish cry br and the water br is their tears. br I listen to the water br on nights I drink away br and the sadness becomes so great br I hear it in my clock br it becomes knobs upon my dresser br it becomes paper on the floor br it becomes a shoehorn br a laundry ticket br it becomes br cigarette smoke br climbing a chapel of dark vines. . . br it matters little br very little love is not so bad br or very little life br what counts br is waiting on walls br I was born for this br I was born to hustle roses down the avenues of the dead.