Muse

Well hatred is too weak a word for the feeling I hold in your presence. Your music, your talk and your sound have turned so sour and unpleasant. You're hiding in depth underground. You're a coward with no chicken feathers. Your meaning is cloaked and it's turned, your head resounds stormy weather. Well you'd better go have you a talk with your muse, she might give you an answer, might give you a clue. She's standing outside of your kitchen door, she might not hear you, might not know you anymore. Atlantic has turned you away. Pacific received even colder. The midwest on down through the gulf, won't sandblast the chip from your shoulder. So touch, touch, outside of the door, you hear it's so empty inside. Well pride that's welling so deep within you once conquered your turn to divide.