| Young Lions |
| Hot tribal night underneath florescent skies bonfires rage strange wild waving shouting Picasso faces In the guise of a lioness the wind kisses her burning dress you can fell her animal eyes you can hear them cry, "Be the jewel around my neck, never a tear on my burning dress" Lying, paralyzed, a brave prey who lays dying and is surrounded by angry spirits hunters, guns, drums, and elephants Why is this night quiet? filled with trees filled with eyes as she prowls around my feet she throws back her head dress and cries, "Now you will be mine, be my young lion" Why is this night quiet? why the trees filled with eyes? as she prowls around my feet she throws back her head dress and cries, "Be my young lion" |