To Scatter One's Own - William Patrick Corgan

Scatter me out on the prairie

Western gales supine the gray

Not that this matters

It’s not that it’s worn

Or threadbare and battered

And the sun must rise

And the sun must rise

Custer sleeps with ball and scythe

A feather on his right

It’s writ in James repent or die

For Enoch chains his scribes

Not that this matters

It’s not that it’s worn

Or threadbare and battered

And the sun must rise on the valley

And the foolish night will lead

Morning comes with death approaching

Echoes pierce to flit thine eye

Sweet but placed, I’m gaunt with age

Slayers mourn but God confides

Not that this matters

It’s not that it’s worn

Or threadbare and tattered

And the sun must rise

Custer sleeps with bell and bride

His brother by his side

A pathway horse will fly and fly

For a stage-lit night on fire

Morning comes with death approaching

Echoes pierce to flit thine eye

Not that this matters

Or not that it’s worn