As he runs further away from his home,
he unravels like a ball of red yarn,
with nothing but torn fabric does he roam.

As it is told in this sorrowful tome,
of the ones who forced him from his red barn,
as he runs further away from his home.

His ragged feet pummel the earthy loam,
with his shabby hat ripped and torn by thorn,
with nothing but torn fabric does he roam.

All that his soul owns is one bamboo comb,
a possession from one who he does mourn,
as he runs further away from his home.

His pained heart beats a dreary monochrome,
still paining from they who gave him much scorn,
with nothing but torn fabric does he roam.

Sighing, he retreats to the catacomb
a man whose fate he did not truly earn.
As he runs further away from his home,
with nothing but torn fabric does he roam.