My grave is where I dig each night ,
above me hangs one gas. fire light
But if love was ever meant to be ,
It wouldn’t be for the likes of you and me
and when i think of what i once owned ,
was nothing but a butterfly.
And if that butterfly had wings , in all my hopes ,
fears and dreams .
And if those dreams turned to flowers,
that wither and die ,
but still last for hours,
and as those hours pass ,
at the bottom of a
hour glass .
And if those hours turned into days ,
perhaps then that might save me from this grave ?
But days were never meant to last ,
and one day they will become a thing of the past .
And so in my digging I came across a fly ,
and that fly was trapped by a web ,
and in that web a spider lay which was eaten by
a bird in May,
and the birds then flapped their tiny wings
and got eaten by a cat who did naughty things ,
Who scratched the dog
who chased the cat that ran around and around
my neighbors flat .
And so it began as if for days ,
The never ending ceaseless din of praise .
that in this world nothing ever wins ,
and all must one day be taken up ,
beyond this grave ,
Or get swollowed up,
by a giant whale
And so , as moths gather around a fire ,
and a fisherman mends his nets ,
catching fish ,
only to save them from an open fire .