Dream Catcher

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Young boy, catch this buffalo with your rope
While she's playing a bamboo jaw harp
Then make your rusty-jagged spear sharp,
Since made from your ancestor spine
Young boy, its in your bloodline

If this drums could talk,
If there's an eerie ghost in my guitar
Until break of dawn,
This shirt is soaked
Of dreams of a rising star

Bring on your octave violins,
To stir this maggot's fear of its strings
As I tried to sleep into your tent of dreams,
Your spirit roams those darkest hills
Night after night your chilling voice calling me

If this drums could talk,
Upon a ghost strumming this guitar
No one knows,
This hand is soaked
Of dreams of a fallen star.

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Dream Catcher