The sun will rise that itches the back wrapped with filth and rait of cracks; the sky glare endlessly at the kinky mat, with a heavy heart she is ready for a pour. For no one is ready for a wasteful mourn.
A number will glance and turn to shades just to be sure she drank from grail.
Alas! Shooting star, turned the frail. Hoes and shovels busy with the toils sand flies around like a Chinese toy.
Mouth will move, sounds pour dirge, but the only mammal whale dies on dry earth,
Maggot and worms waits eagerly beneath.
Trees wails in agony, for friends they were in harmony
Flood not my grave with your tears for its suits not the face you wear
Wail not for within you jeer
I’m on the right side of fate
Tic Tic Tic, is it not the clock? Of course you are afraid!