As the hail makes love to the streets
I query its vendetta with I
What had I done to be defamed
By such unforeseen chagrin

The sound ‘tis the ****** of the horizon
Echoes that of a violinist scarred by ****** mortification
The harmony plays in quite a lovely manner
Could hook one quickly if not careful

Appeased I sit in a wooden, black chair
And saturate in fine rock refrains
A pacifying compensation if I may say
A scripted version of hell