Put ya shoulder to the handle, if ya dare, and hoist that bucket hither, Crank'n'hoist'n'hoist'n'crank, till ya muscles waste'n'wither. - Nick Cave

From the words and the thickets,
Come the ghosts of his victims,
'We love you!'
'Ah love you!'
This will not hurt a bit.

One morn I awakened, a new sun was shining,
The sky was a kingdom, all covered in blood.
The moon and the stars, where the troops that lay conquered,
Like food left to wither, poor spirital food.

The spears of the bright sun, all brave with its conquest,
Did hover unearthly, in banners of fire.
I knelt in the garden, awash with the dawning,
And a voice came so brightly, I covered my eyes.