The Writer lyrics

Comfort is what we need, my baby Listen and I'll show you how. The side walk's the carpet And the Bushes are the wall Through the sky last night he covers his young The cold blocks the cold wind whistling through Where the Sidewalk's the carpet And the busshes are the walls The moons his lamp And the world's his door His eyes bleed salt crystal ice And his hair, deeply swooshing sliced paper cuts Where the sidewalk's the carpet And the bushes are the walls The moon's his lamp And the world's his door His young sleeping firmly inbetween kneecaps and pockets Dreams of days resembling life Where the sidewalk's the carpet and the bushes are the walls The moon's his lamp And the world's his door Kneecaps and pockets, dreams of days resembling life "In the morning to the sound of worldfull news, slapping portraits he arises with his feet to attack. Like comaraco worms, needles with teeth, he takes his young into his hand, and folds into a little square and slips it in his sock. He puts it in his sock." It fits into his sock? "Oh yeah." He then walks away With one foot Tapping the pavement And the other kicking up mulch