SNOW took us away from the smoke valleys into white mountains, we saw velvet blue cows eating a vermillion grass and they
gave us a pink milk.
Snow changes our bones into fog streamers caught by the wind and spelled into many dances.
Six bits for a sniff of snow in the old days bought us bubbles beautiful to forget floating long arm women across sunny
Our bones cry and cry, no let-up, cry their telegrams:
More, morea yen is on, a long yen and God only knows when it will end.
In the old days six bits got us snow and stopped the yennow the government says: No, no, when our bones cry their
telegrams: More, more.
The blue cows are dying, no more pink milk, no more floating long arm women, the hills are emptyus for the smoke
valleyssneeze and shiver and croak, you dopesthe government says: No, no.