The whole towns slippin down a hill.
Like the spine of something dead.
Slide in shadow cobble-creep.
Burn your mark and leave.

The trench conventions yellow eyes
Follow her the local flower
The girls a priest (to me at least)
Since baptism peroxide.

And fear is not respect. Correct.
But it′s the best you′re gonna get
Sharp blow to the bridge of the nose