Believe me when I say
I will not, would not go
Though you should follow
If I leave this mire in the gloom
As sight becomes blurry
To the drone of this sorrowful dirge
We turn to follow the troop
Our form behooves this movement
The words spew from our mouth
Hollow though true, as if the buyer knew
Lacking fury in our mood
We wallow in the trove
To the tune of our own drum