Years of close, sudden morose. Years of lanced pride and pain.
There is a booming voice, treble dose, worse in hills’ slide and gain. I have seen
What must become, undone, unsung. This is G-d’s truth. You can’t be the same
Plain as rain, distain, in vain…
I have no bitter, it stings in glitter, its banter rather, (grant it father), is cheapened in distanced strain
I have no recourse, this whittled voice, I can’t regard the refrain. And so the loss -of man off course, remorse, endorse and whither as sure as there was Cain.