Texty: Comadre. The Youth. The Trials.

It wasn't gravity, it was the witches.
Make your fingers into pillars
hold all the stomachs in this town,
they can't stomach anymore.
The wood on these trees smell like skin now
and old fires are full of carpenter stories,
where they push plastic nails through their smiles.
It wasn't gravity, it was the witches.
Just wait till they cook up a cure for ignorance