Simple as the rising and setting sun
Nature never knew such a thing as this
Two smokers coughs huddle, the day almost done
And the matches singe with a dull hiss
Oh portable fire, oh gentle ray!
A toy sings the praises of prometheus
So ready to condem himself and lay
Upon the stone to have torn out his guts
And too soon the paper is fully burnt
But the merriment is not over yet
We stumble until the cold has turned
To the heat of a downy blanket set
The pen, no sword and portable fire
All things that I need to gently retire.