Sour sweet the taste of bitterness and pain,
What's left of this world, what winds up
Floating down the stream into a drain,
It's man-made perfection-so they say,
They take time and effort filling this world
With so much light, they would be
As if the ones who could defeat death
If but with the brightest bulbs, they'll fight!

But actually in the end there is no way
To cure the common coldness of pain,
Of death, why to attempt would be insane,
I should give in to this lunacy anyway...?
Aren't we a busy bunch? We make for
A strange and power-hungry sight,
The only way off this old earthen rock
Is to find acceptance of deaths plight.