My best and worst time of the year
November, by Tom Waits.
No shadows, no stars
There's no moon and no cars, November
It only believes in a pile of dead leaves
And a moon that's the color of bone
No prayers for November to linger longer
Stick your spoon in the wall and we'll slaughter them all
November has tied me to an old dead tree
Get word to April to rescue me
November's cold chain made of wet boots and rain
Shiny black ravens on chimney smoke lanes
November seems odd, you're my firing squad, November
With my hair slicked back with carrion shellac
With the blood from a pheasant and the bone from a hare
Tied to the branches of a roebuck stag
Left to wave in the timber like a buck shot flag
Go away you rainsnout
Go away, blow your brains out, November
No shadows, no stars
There's no moon and no cars, November
It only believes in a pile of dead leaves
And a moon that's the color of bone
No prayers for November to linger longer
Stick your spoon in the wall and we'll slaughter them all
November has tied me to an old dead tree
Get word to April to rescue me
November's cold chain made of wet boots and rain
Shiny black ravens on chimney smoke lanes
November seems odd, you're my firing squad, November
With my hair slicked back with carrion shellac
With the blood from a pheasant and the bone from a hare
Tied to the branches of a roebuck stag
Left to wave in the timber like a buck shot flag
Go away you rainsnout
Go away, blow your brains out, November