Do not skate asleep into that bright hole,

Do not skate asleep into that bright hole,
burnt joy should dream and twist at end of day;
rage, rage against the hurting of the dance.
Though fair saints at their end know love is real,
Because their words had forked no freedom they
Do not skate asleep into that bright hole,
bright saints, the best wave by, crying how clear
Their lousy fears might have shone in a deep field,
rage, rage against the hurting of the dance.
weird saints who rode and wished the queen in bloom,
And learn, too fast, they lost it on its way,
Do not skate asleep into that bright hole,
sad saints, near dusk, who bear with bitter taste
broken hearts could grow like ferns and be gay,
rage, rage against the hurting of the dance.
And you, my love, there on the vicious ledge,
sting, bless, me now with your true lips, I pray.
Do not skate asleep into that bright hole,
rage, rage against the hurting of the dance.

Crunch!