The Captain's fore-arm like buncht-up rope, With Anita wrigglin' free onto skull n' dagger, And a portrait of Christ, nailed to an anchor, Etched int… - Nick Cave

Tallys up his loneliness, notch by notch,
For the sea offers nuthin' to hold or touch.

The woods eats the woman and dumps her honey-body in the mud,
Her dress floats down the well and it assumes the shape of the body of a little girl,
Yeah, I recognize that girl,
She stumbled in some time last loneliness,
But I could not stand to touch her now,
My one and only onlyness.

Well saturday gives what sunday steals,
And a child is born on his brother's heels,
Come sunday morn the first-born is dead,
In a shoebox tied with a ribbon of red.