When the sky begins to blacken,
my soul is quenched with blue.
Stricken from the place of birth,
accept the nearest view.
A million little critters drifting
slowly through the goo,
await the day that sun returns
with lightly faded hue.

When the stars forget their twinkle,
lords of chaos gape and grin.
Stricken from the world as twine,
to wrap and close the gin.
A bunch of pollen sightless,
so the eyes they cannot pin.
Await the final movements
with grenade that lacks,
the,
skin? ****.