No more poems, thank you;
I think that I'm done.
My notebook's half empty,
And apathy's won.
Please turn off the music;
My songs are all sung.
I think the night's over,
Although it's still young.
No more words, I beg you;
Just slice off my tongue!
They're just wasted air,
From a withering lung.
I've no more left to say;
Time to blot out the sun.
My notebook's half empty,
And apathy's won.