&¨&¨&¨&&&¨ ¨¨&¨¨&&¨¨&
&¨&¨&¨¨&&¨ ¨&&¨&¨&¨&¨
&¨&¨&¨&¨&¨ ¨¨&¨&¨&¨&¨
&¨&¨&¨&¨&¨ ¨&&¨&¨&¨&¨
&¨&¨&¨&¨&¨ ¨¨&¨&¨&¨&¨
&¨&¨&¨&¨&¨ 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. ¨¨&¨&¨&¨&¨
&¨&¨&¨&¨&¨ ¨&&¨&¨&¨&¨
&¨&¨&¨&¨&¨ ¨¨&¨&¨&¨&¨
&¨&¨&¨&¨&¨ ¨&&¨&¨&¨&¨
&¨&¨&¨&¨&¨ ¨¨&¨&¨&¨&¨
&¨&¨&¨&¨&¨ ¨&&¨&¨&¨&¨