The mountains aren’t calling my name I hear the river is turning into wine And this road will never end Father, this world isn’t mine
Praise this ode to chaos, Recite a prayer to fate “Nothing can be done” “Nothing can be done”
I’m a mortal and I’m a sinner My heart is just about still Kick off your boots, sit on your throne Bury us in another landfill
Why won’t you come? Give us something to believe We’re patient and we’re waiting But soon we’ll have to leave
This is a poem written a few months ago in the summer, most likely in August, about the French play *italic*Waiting For Godot*italic* by Samuel Beckett.