Four ice block oceans from a big, red summertime,
Three riders of the Arapaho,
When the world was just barely mine,
When the world was just barely mine,
Two like Handsel with his crumbs now eaten,
One dead like winter at the edge of the quiet night,
When the world was broken by the bells of Christmas,
And my hound would shiver at the Prince of moontime,
Hollow out the night with his wolfen whine,
Yes, he would hollow out the night with his wolfen whine.

I was depressed enough to state, “Here he is!”
With great sarcasm, whenever I saw myself anywhere,
And mean enough to respond in kind.

One night, when their stride was broken,
Two mares of the Arapaho broke away
Three miles from nowhere and, if their thoughts were spoken,
“For what?” would be what they would say.

Envy him, the saddest player of the broken fortune wheel,
Grand beginner of endless stories.
And they all started with the Big Bang cataclysm.
Three anthropologists and a priest and a Rabbi
Went into the bar where their horses were tied.
All sat waiting for the punch line to be delivered,
Till, one by one, they all died.

And my hound would shiver at the Prince of Moontime,
Hollow out the night with his wolfen whine,
Yes, he would hollow out the night with his wolfen whine.

I was depressed enough to state, “Here he is!”
With great sarcasm, whenever I saw myself anywhere,
And mean enough to respond in kind.

One night, when their stride was broken,
Two mares of the Arapaho broke away
Three miles from nowhere and, if their thoughts were spoken,
“For what?” would be what they would say, woah.