Little Hand Joanna Newsom

Take her down, Tom, the time has come
At last, I can hear her song
Water contracts, our hold holds fast
Like the last of the iron lungs

My child and me through the miles and leagues
Fall as hard and sessile as hail
Echoing laughter fore and aft
O’er the raft of the violet snail

Now doesn't that sight put the fear of God in you
Green light sweeps like a nightstick swinging
Sonar softly pinging-ing-ing-ing-ing-ing-ing-ing,
I am appeased by what I have seen

Now turn around, Ma, you already saw
What you may and can look no further
Haunting a post where the Holy Ghost poses
Down through the rayless water

Holding a child, oh, ain't it nice
Ain't it wild and sweet to the verge of anguish?
Ain't it absurd, I do not have words
It is not for a lack of language

Tethered to our floating post
We scout for your crown and its Paley graph
Your periscope a coronet
Towering-ing-ing-ing-ing-ing-ing-ing