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Archers of Loaf

Chumming The Oceans

South of the river’s mouth
Migration slopes slowly towards mainland.
There, the salt air
Fills the gills of the dead bait in hand.

The deep is in riot, the coastline is quiet
Asleep and divided in bands.
While beer halls all revil, drunk and disheveled,
Helplessly wading the diver is down.

And they’re chumming the oceans.
The signal is sent,
Recieved and repsonded to.
The water is red, red, red, red.

We’re downed, downed as the hand of god
Chokes the driftwood with dead weight and brine.
And spawning the detailed decline
Via dorsal cuts, hooks, sink and line.

The anchors have setlled, the tanks are full level.
The flag has been raised half-mast on the bow.
And harpoons are loaded, the cage has been lowered.
The mask’s on, the diver is down, now.

And they’re chumming the oceans.
The signal is sent
I think he’s in trouble.
The water is red, red, red, red.



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