The people in the ground can't be dead
It must be something more like sleep or a trick played on people instead
The dirt packed down they strain and writhe and struggle
Yesterday will make you cry
Yesterday will make you fall down and die
Three or four times a year
I will go alone to see them standing impervious there
Stained by time they stand there gazing at nothing
Yesterday will make you cry
Yesterday will make you fall down and die
I have found the landmarks and the junctions in this town
Tell a story, secret history like the people in the ground
Or the mirror in your house