Oh, Oh, me, me
Me, me, I,I

I am the greatest
None can deny

Oh, Oh, I,I
Me,me, Oh, Oh

I do believe
That the greatest
Is sub-par, slightly slow

Me, I,Me, I
Me, I, Oh!

Even Old Macdonald
In his grave he does roll!

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

you stolen pink, arson rose
you angry yellow
you know you the new black?
you inmate slap
color of construction
oh range
convict cage or bruised sunset
you peel or rind
oh range
oh range
(oh aren't you glad I didn't say orange?)
you uniform agent
you coral fire burnt
aren't you glad i didn't say orange?

I saw the in-between of monday and tuesday
and it frowned at me for trespassing.
I was in the ocean though I did not swim, I caught the tide on my lips
and I waited there for it to one day drag you in again with the pebbles.
except
you never came to visit the sea again, I know because I waited
and at 2pm, in protest and in sadness
I drowned a boy, to prove I was powerful, too.
I put myself in the clouds
but you did not look up
and so I made it rain.
and then I watched as your hair got wet
and suddenly I was very sad
that the only way I could touch you was from so far away
and you did not want me there.
and then I put myself in your garden, and I tried to grow
but I was strange, I was pale, and I was dark and so I turned into nettles
and I hurt you every time we touched.
so I saw the meadows you stayed in when you were a child and I copied them to give you a sense of comfort
a mother’s fore-head kiss
I let my nettles die and I was a daisy nearby and I danced to get your attention, to prove to you
that daisies could grow where nettles did too.
but you did not pick me
I was a tiny flower and my colours were not bright enough
I was not a meadow; I was not a mother; I was only a metaphor
in a book you didn’t want to read.
and so I admired the things you did want:
sugar in your coffee
white bread and sleep. and
the shoulder which carried a flick of your hair.
made me angry like the curve of your spine; I could not own it like I had owned the ocean
and I had owned the sky
and I had owned nature
and it tortured me to know that with everything I had become it was not enough to put my hand on your stomach
and to tell you I love you.
the sky could not talk, I could not move as a daisy, I hurt relentlessly
and one day when I watched your eyelids as you were sleeping
it occurred to me that it was often the case that beauty was not to be touched, or to be owned
and so I left.
and quietly, calmly
without saying a word,
without owning anything
I loved you in silence.
still do.

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.