Here lies the body, here dies the verse.
Words whisked off into an unforgiving air.
A eulogy for no one, an insult for a care.
There goes the poor poet in the hers.
Off to be buried in grass green and fair,
Where lies his wife, naked and bare.
No one says a kind farewell, for no one is there.

Here lies the body, here dies the thanks.
The bankers hands rub together at the news.
A life they lead on, a death they’ll abuse.
For the end is a cheque cashed in his banks.  
No kin can collect, or have his house to use.
Mould reeks from windows- filth and mildew.
And no one dares to enter except for the cranks.

But in his filth they find old heaps of paper.
And in his words the find old and sweet peace:
A world, A vision, a home to more than lees.
A life to lead, a truth to seek. A world much greater
than the one around them that crawls about to cease
of any kind of kindness. And here hope is deceased.
Take his words, leave your worries. We can all worry later.

Old Gods die hard.
I lay here between bones, and glass in shards,
and watch them cling to their miserable lives.
Ten bullets, one pill, one bottle, and ten knives.
Forty virgins, forty mothers, and forty wives
will await no one, and nothing is in this feeling.

Old Gods Die hard.

Away wae ye, dinnae bury yer heed.
This time the morra we could aw be deed.
So take the day by the tail and walk him,
and live a life that yer proud tae lead.  

I'm a sky, I'm a seashore, I'm the day drawing dim.
I'm a highway, I'm a mountain, I'm whatever ye need.

Yer heads just a bed for others opinions to lay in;
growing bigger, badder and bolder there,
until they’re covered in sores, manky and reeking.
Yer heads just a place for others thoughts to leek in.
But dinnae get disheartened by their chat.
Remember its your head thats dain aw that.
They never said a word, its yer head that ye heard.

Upon a hill with ecstasy within,
the fool sits staring with a mad old grin.
He lets out a sigh of yesterdays trouble,
casts a waving hand out across the rubble,
and thinks to himself of the first hair on his chin;
He was fifteen, and full of fearful dreams,
spending days on end chasing clouds and the beams.
But the cloud never was within his reach,
and it ****** on his time, like he were blood and it a leach.
Now he sits, watching the skies split at their seams,
and laughs at the cloud, who’s now lost his sparkle.

Let this be the verse that lives forever.
When mountains have crumbled, and dry lies the river
in it's once plentiful and loving banks.  
Look to this verse, and keep your thanks,
but give your love and time, and undying fervour
of spirit that lets the mind find many splendour
in the dullest of things.

Beauty is bottomless, boldness is boring,
subtlety is king, and patience is adoring.
The mind is an ally, a fearful old rival.
Let this be the verse of the young minds revival.

P.  Why must you waste your time with petty quarrels
    just to hold up with hollow pride, your worthless laurels?
    Arrogant in faith, and blind in sin.
    Virtue without an hatred within.
    Your youthfulness is bold, but equally unlearned.  
    Love you've never possessed, and only ever yearned.
    Tell me now, tell me how you are the fix?
    Show me that you are more than a sad bag of tricks.

C.   Shut it ya ****.