the field of yellow grass

you stood on a field with yellow grass, Fes

but now that is not known, no?

for i don't think any man in his right mind could say

they ever saw grass that was yellow 

not even Fes

i hung beside you

had on a coat of flies

you spoke to me

you said stop moving to me

but i was not moving,

it was the flies that were, you see

stop dispersing

away, you tiny fiends!

you shook me you shook me

you said stop speaking to me

but i was not speaking,

tying my shoes in haste,

we'll be late for the gathering!

you were 

tying my shoes, tying my shoes,

by the tree in front of no gathered crowd 

in the middle of the broken sea

wailing in confined plea

by an old weeping willow tree

you were attempting to revive a corpse

while a mariachi band made of flies that called themselves The Dolóres sang,

como es, como es,

por que Llama loco Fes 

or maybe in your ears they rang

in the lot with yellow grass,

like a bygone sea with dried up sand

called the field of no man's land

hung the fiend by your own hand