And now it's raining,
What a perfect day to ****!
I have washed the blood
With my blackened eye
An wrote you off the will;

I hope that you find amusement
When I fight your battles
I'll keep shut, bow my head
And I promise I won't tattle

It's a shame on a rainy day
To **** men and joy
I hope I can replace him
With another boy toy.

"What is 'Revolution' mum?
And why are there men with hats?"

"They fight for the country baby,
They are the good lads"

"Then what is my sister doing?
Holding placards and such?"

"Oh, that is nothing,
They are doing just for fun"

"She cries at home mum,
I don't want her to be sad,
When I asked her why you don't support her
She replied that you thought it was bad
Mum, she fights for the right things
And not for lies that are sold,
She says maybe you are deluded
And your thoughts are frail and old."

I thought I put up a tent,
I racked up chains, chards and Chopard
It was inside of beast,
I Flared,
Flabbergasted, I knew there was
An indecent stare,

I put the candle and the pen in his pancreas,
And wore what was left of a man,
A writer is a friendly beast,
Beast he heard and he ran.

I Write of Sonia the Mexican peddler
Of two counts of forgery and what not,
A writer's guilt is that he forgets man,
And he becomes the God.
A writer's guilt is Bible's trouble
To determine a Lord.

Critical of rain, mud or touch,
There was a plant that shied away.
There were days when men kissed men
But this rotten plant shied away.
It's leaves would curl up whenever there was war;
I simply sighed in dismay
It wasn't a plant for all.