&§*;«-¨¨¨¨ ¨¨¨¨-«;*§&
§*;«-¨¨¨¨¨ ¨¨¨¨¨-«;*§
*;«-¨¨¨¨¨¨ ¨¨¨¨¨¨-«;*
§*;«-¨¨¨¨¨ ¨¨¨¨¨-«;*§
&§*;«-¨¨¨¨ ¨¨¨¨-«;*§&
@&§*;«-¨¨¨ I Follow The Tire Tracks West. They Go ¨¨¨-«;*§&@
#@&§*;«-¨¨ Parallel With The Railroad, With Its ¨¨-«;*§&@#
##@&§*;«-¨ Endless Mirrors Looking Kinda Oily. An ¨-«;*§&@##
#@&§*;«-¨¨ Incredible Power Bound There... There'S ¨¨-«;*§&@#
@&§*;«-¨¨¨ A Wire Fence To Separate The Two Roads. ¨¨¨-«;*§&@
&§*;«-¨¨¨¨ ¨¨¨¨-«;*§&
§*;«-¨¨¨¨¨ Even Though There'S A Foggy Quality To ¨¨¨¨¨-«;*§
*;«-¨¨¨¨¨¨ The Air, The Path I Follow Is Glowing. ¨¨¨¨¨¨-«;*
§*;«-¨¨¨¨¨ A Yellow-Green Moss Has Taken Hold ¨¨¨¨¨-«;*§
&§*;«-¨¨¨¨ Where The Machines Who Made These ¨¨¨¨-«;*§&
@&§*;«-¨¨¨ Tracks Once Disturbed The Clover Field. ¨¨¨-«;*§&@
#@&§*;«-¨¨ ¨¨-«;*§&@#
##@&§*;«-¨ We'Re Off The Season When The Birds ¨-«;*§&@##
#@&§*;«-¨¨ Sing Beautifully. These Days It'S Just ¨¨-«;*§&@#
@&§*;«-¨¨¨ Screeches, Or Calls For Help. ¨¨¨-«;*§&@
&§*;«-¨¨¨¨ ¨¨¨¨-«;*§&
§*;«-¨¨¨¨¨ I Think Of The Jackdaw I Maimed ¨¨¨¨¨-«;*§
*;«-¨¨¨¨¨¨ Yesterday. I Fear The Dreaming gate. ¨¨¨¨¨¨-«;*
§*;«-¨¨¨¨¨ ¨¨¨¨¨-«;*§
&§*;«-¨¨¨¨ ¨¨¨¨-«;*§&
@&§*;«-¨¨¨ ¨¨¨-«;*§&@
#@&§*;«-¨¨ ¨¨-«;*§&@#
##@&§*;«-¨ ¨-«;*§&@##