There's a ghost, ghost in the mezzanine
And she's soaked, soaked in a glimmering
Sort of bone
Her bones and I'm blathering
To count all her freckles, to kiss her bare ankles
The breath of the bread while it bakes

How I ache, I ache in the pit of me
I awake, awake with this fear in me
How it makes, makes a fool out of me
With its knife how it carves the seeds out of my heart
For to plant in the soil for to feast

You are sweet, sweet as a nectarine
When you speak, speak softly and gracefully
To me, you could quite possibly be
The death of my dread, and the songs in my head
Could at last find their place and be sung