A sliver of light cut straight through the fog.
A visible path had not been seen for days.
When it emerged, the strays did arch their backs.
They wove in and out in the form of an obscene hex.
Their yowls so sour.
Try in my good ear, please.
I beg your pardon, oh
excuse me, sir
I got lost, the mirage led me astray.
As a fast talking salesman swindles,
thread pulled off the spindle.
Overflowed, as you and I walked in the park.
I had no thoughts of the future
Trapped, free in the open, so deceived.
Run for cover, oh, become the color of the yolk.
Rattling chains of a Christmas ghost haunting you.
Run for cover, oh, become the color of the yolk
A smallish game the hunter smote.
Known to evade every battlefield
An infantry of lonely thoughts conform
Are glad to comply
with terms and conditions that
arouse my suspicions
I took it in and wrong.
I'm preparing for a warm escape,
so hold your breath and wait
and please go slow.
supported by 9 fans who also own “A Smallish Game”
Probably the best way to open a Wild Powwers album. It's short, sweet, it builds, it's energetic. The opening salvo of lyrics sets the tone for the whole album. Jameson Calantoc