In the hard-edged town 
the form that the light takes is like a trickle down. 
Some things it will filter out 
to soften the faces of the angry men who still walk around, 
who will walk around in the harvest night 
of a suitcase town. 

I fear the pace of change. 
I fear the face of change. 
I fear the pace of change. 
Something in the air tastes of strange enough. 
Everybody must go. 
Everybody must swear an oath to leave. 
I heard it on the radio. 
(That's how I know.)