you wake and read the message on your phone
which tells you something that is bitter cold
at edge of summer now you are not old
just middle-aged not in the best of tone
a little silly too inclined to moan
about the minor things yet not the gold
measure of what can now be truly told
you see the words a crab now eats her bone
the tale's been written on a rotting page
yet can be read by any human eye
we can't escape the poison nor the taint
nothing avails there is no use to rage
each comfortable answer is a lie
and yet she set the signal down in paint