Plunged are the drifters, into cinders, born to ash,  amassing, the blisters, of level headed listeners, in lesioned legions of the crass, who crashed in rash plagues, of pressed pariahs, burned in the churning melting pots of the bomb, and they sing the songs of the gone, while withdrawing, and unlearning the yearning to see, the unhealthy teething, of lost beings, gnawing on the beams, of lamp lit eloquence, fenced, behind closed doors, just living the dream, in blind sentiment to the cling, of the embarrassment in, smearing the sediment of the king, upon the all being, and all seeing, in the fleeting feeling of falling from the ceiling of his revealing thoughts, leering in the steering of the searing plot.