A blind man looks out through your eye, He hears the color of your sigh Tastes a laugh upon your thigh, then roars Oh, let's be clear, my sighing balladeer I want nothing more than You to hear me now There's red iron in the sliding clay, It stains our knees and turns away The blood-lusty angels looking to rumble in town Oh, let me be clear, my sliding bombardier I want nothing more than You to find me now Here's how I'm leaning, word for word, No matter what you think you've heard: When I say, "bird," I mean a bird, no less and not more Oh, let it be clear, my leaning auctioneer: I want nothing more than You to raise me now I'm thirsting after righteous gloom With daylight streaming in this room; And the loss of love one day soon may bear me out and away But let's be clear, my streaming volunteer I want nothing more than You to see me now But let's be clear, my streaming volunteer I want nothing more than You to hear me now