Like a kindled fire it smokes

Upon the wood it grows

With no ventilation it chokes

Turning thy friends to foes

From thy tongue in thy cheek the flames doth crack

With the empty words we billow

Tears of sap seep with each fiery snap

As we burn the weeping willow

Withdraw the wood from thy furnace

And if the charred remains ever smolder

Then inward thy glare must turneth

For these flames shall make thee ever colder