A bunch of granite decembers (song)

Anti-globe is a sweating sun
I haven't had whiskey for weeks
and I know I should slam the drawer
and walk my hands away from the cash

she said she'd come if I could take her ride
to her father's place in the woods
I went there and I nearly died
his dogs prowled a path out of reach

and if the engine would've turned her head
she could've kept me at the hotel
tape player's in a puddle of sludge
spiders crawl the cracks in the scene

the blood birds of whatever's next
and the lace-work of days
that shiver over them