Oh~ Jenny's a' weet, poor body
Jenny's seldom dry:
She draigl't a' her petticoatie,
comin thro' the rye!
Comin thro' the rye, poor body,
comin thro' the rye
she draigl't a' her petticoatie
comin thro' the rye!
Gin a body meet a body
comin thro' the rye
gin a body kiss a body,
need a body cry?
Gin a body meet a body
comin thro' the glen,
gin a body kiss a body,
need the warl' ken?
Gin a body meet a body
comin thro' the grain
gin a body kiss a body,
the thing's a body's ain.
....
I did a little hop skip as I sang the lyric for the umteenth time.
There's really not much to do out here.
It was night, the sky was a lovely dark green,
with no promise of a starlit purple twilight.
The pools of blood where I had tread...
were not diminishing nor soaking into the ground.
By the looks of it... the last dune I crossed
had a red stream trickling after me.
I could only imagine the torrent
that would come tomorrow.
Sweeping me away in an angry rush of iron stinking liquid.
So impossible to scrub clean...
No.. not tomorrow.
Right now.
The tsunami of wounded earth was upon me.
Right now.
And again... just as that first energetic spray hit my lips
I felt that minor twinge of fear.
I was off my feet. Pounded by a thousand years of dead juice.
Caught up in the liquid chaos.
It's in my nose... it's in my hair. It's on my tongue.
The blood is everywhere and I'm nought but an incidental...
Drifting along in the afterbirth.
No control to be had, no meaning to infer.
All things insisting I succumb, submit...
come along for the ride.
But I hate that sensation.
All things spiraling out of control.
Something greater than I... fucking with my everything.
Spiraling me down...
Down down down.
Down yet another plughole.
The question is,
why did it have to be so damn literal this time?
