In an open field at dusk

To footfalls I awoke

Marching ants across my temples, oh

Their feet had no intention

They followed some magnetic drum

Prisoners of their destination

From the slats of the factory come

Where once they did make rails

Old Death's peculiar songs

He didn't know I was listening

So he crowed out nice and long

To the spiders and the lumber

And the dust of his conquests

And his hunger, and his lust

I heard his feet rejoice

I heard him tap his cane

As if he had his own revue

Onstage at the Athenaeum

I caught his words in my open mouth

I gagged and choked and spit them out

I heard him turn as he did hear

My tiny heartbeat in his ear

I was already running

Oh, I heard him coming

Shrapnel spitting from his wheels

His scything arms rake for my heels

I dove and rolled and hid my face

And I said these magic words

"My dove is home, her breast is warm, my dove is home."

I said these magic words

And fell down, down, the anthill for days

"My dove is home, her breast is warm, my dove is home."

"My dove is home, her breast is warm, my dove is home"