November Tom Waits

No shadows, no stars
There's no moon and no cars
November

It only believes in a pile of dead leaves
And a moon that's the color of bone
No prayers for November to linger longer

Stick your spoon in the wall
And we'll slaughter them all
November has tied me to an old dead tree
Get word to April to rescue me

November's cold chain made of wet-boots and rain
And shiny black ravens on chimney smoke lanes
November seems odd, you're my firing squad
November

With my hair slicked back with carrion shellac
And the blood from a pheasant and the bone from a hare
Tied to the branches of a roebuck stag
Left to wave in the timber like a buckshot flag

Go away, you rainsnout
Go away, blow your brains out
November