Farewell to Love, and in a letter of an Eden garden
A sad soul killed quicker than a germ
That cremated ashes in an ashcan of woes
Aston martin driving across a hall, and burning this earth with it
Smiling weren't we when we realized that Russian modernist, as it murmurs to us
A person blind to the light, and selling Dylan Thomas
The flaming and blazing letter of Nobel
My heart is squeezed, because of the ****** of my ashcan
They stole my ashes, my motherless Russians find themselves in communist pamphlets
Selling the red letter, in a thought underground I respect them
Wrapped around the cut finger, cuffed with my bitter laments burning with sealed wax sent to Brezhnev committees
The lion is never fickle, so it doesn't feed itself doth pride