Pity The Planet, All Joy

In The End, There Is No End.

Their Monument Sticks Like A Fishbone In The City's Throat.

The World Is Absolutely Out Of Control Now And Is Not Going To Be Saved By Any Reason Or Unreason.

Those Blessed Structures, Plot And Rhyme-- Why Are They No Help To Me Now I Want To Make Something Imagined, Not Recalled?

We Are All Old-timers, Each Of Us Holds A Locked Razor.