The Ivory Fields

The best and worst kind of music is man-made.

As the sun sleeps
Ivory keys weep
Pedals are still
beneath hammers posed to kill

The weeping keys
rest beneath blackened trees
they've got nothing left
Sharpened, flattened by death

A fire pops
as a sickly soul coughs
Crushing the keys
he spreads the disease
he spreads the disease
he spreads the disease