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The effervescent of warm
leads to dry spells in the farm.
And their banal postulating
is nothing other
Than masturbating
from the aged Greeks or Geeks
baring gifts
of all our solemn tomorrows.
And there will be no songs
in Engand's fair land.
Just throngs of all our yesterdays!
Then there will be this:
A solitary madcap laugh,
the song of I !
Given by the indulgent
over the corpses of their children.
And in the night owl's call,
time will slip from the twilight sky
to finally find that we will find no rest
No subtlest jest
For there is no recompense
In a land where no-one is free.